
f " ::- 



1 







Copyii^ht}I°_ 



COPyRIGHT DEPOSm 



^p 2r. S)meaton C|)a0e 



CALIFORNIA COAST TRAILS. A Horseback 
Ride from Mexico to Or»gon. Illustrated. 

YOSEMITE TRAILS. Illustrated. 

CONE-BEARING TREES OF THE CALIFOR- 
NIA MOUNTAINS. Illustrated. 

^p Cf)arle£( iFrantis ^annUera 



THE INDIANS OF THE TERRACED HOUSES. 
Illustrated. 

UNDER THE SKY IN CALIFORNIA. Illustrated. 

WITH THE FLOWERS AND TREES IN CALI- 
FORNIA. Illustrated. 

A WINDOW IN ARCAOY. Illustrated 







AT MISSION SAN JOS]§ 







>/ THE SAN CARLOS MISSION AT THE HEIGHT OF ITS ACTIVITY ?? 



..-"K 



•»•• «-- N,. 



'5 









» > 
Trf0^mf*f0^''<. * 



t^t Caftfovnia (pabres 

AND 
THEIR MISSIONS 



BY 

CHARLES FRANCIS SAUNDERS 

I' 

AND JC^SMEATON CHASE 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

MDCCCCXV 






COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY CHARLES FRANCIS SAUNDERS AND J. SMEATON CHASE 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

Published April tqis 



APR -5 1915 
Ci)aAyy74 07 



^teface 



^N making another presentation of the oft- told story of the 
^ Franciscan Missions of California, a few words in explan- 
ation of the plan of this volume may not be amiss. 

A chapter is devoted to each of the Missions, except that 
the three closely associated Missions near the Golden Gate 
are treated in one : and each chapter is divided into two sec- 
tions. In the first section, the historical facts most likely to 
interest the general reader are discursively woven into a per- 
sonal narrative, together with matters pertaining to the pres- 
ent-day condition and activities of the estabhshment. Fol- 
lowing upon this, and forming a second section of the chapter, 
is an essay or story, designed to portray some feature of Mis- 
sion hfe or history. While in many instances the treatment 
of this second section is fictional, when it takes the form of a 
story it has for its nucleus some tradition or historic fact, in 
every instance except in Chapters VIII and X, where the 
story is purely fanciful. 

A special feature of the volume is the collection of facts 
presented (for the first time in popular form, the authors be- 
lieve) regarding the Padres themselves. Those remarkable 
characters have been practically unknown, even by name, 
to the thousands of travelers who every year visit the Cali- 
fornia Missions, and even to many residents of CaHfornia: 
yet many of them deserve to be household names in the land 
they did so much to civiHze. The Franciscans were never 
self-advertisers, and the personal element in their written 
records is accordingly very meager. Nevertheless, by glean- 
ing a little here and a httle there, one gets a fair taste of their 
quality, finding them in general a very human and lovable sort. 

v 



^veface 



For the facts regarding both the Missionaries and the Mis- 
sions, the authors are indebted particularly to Fr. Francisco 
Palou's Life of Junipero Serra and Noticias; the narratives 
of such travelers as Vancouver, Beechey, and Duflot de 
Mofras; the books of residents under the Mexican regime, 
such as Alfred Robinson and William Heath Davis; and the 
histories of Fr. Zephyrin Engelhardt and Hubert Howe Ban- 
croft. To Father Alexander Buckler, of Mission Santa Ines, 
and Father St. John O'Sullivan, of Mission San Juan Capis- 
trano, an especial meed of thanks is due for invaluable as- 
sistance on many points, as well as for hospitaUties enjoyed 
by the authors which have been pecuHarly serviceable in 
putting them in touch with somewhat of the Missions' inner 
life that it would not otherwise have been possible to obtain. 

C. F. S. 
J. S. C. 

Pasadena, California, 
December, 1914. 



CHAPTER ONE 

I. San Diego de Alcala, the Mother Mission, and 
HOW THE Devil had a Beating there ... 3 
^ II. Padre Urbano's Umbrella 13 

CHAPTER TWO 

I. Mission San Lms Rey de Francia, and Somewhat 

OF the Padre who does not Die 33 

II. The Little Christlans of San Apolinario ... 42 

CHAPTER THREE 

I. San Antonio de Pala and its Hanging Garden . 49 
^ II. The Exiles of Agua Caliente 55 

CHAPTER FOUR 

I. San Juan Capistrano, the Melrose of the Mis- 
sions 65 

-- II. The Penance of Magdalena 75 

CHAPTER FIVE 

I. Mission San Gabriel Arcangel and the Miracle 

OF the Virgin's Banner 93 

II. The Bells of San Gabriel 103 

CHAPTER SIX 

I. Mission San Fernando Rey de Espana and " Padre 

Napoleon" iii 

^ II. The Buried Treasure of Simi 120 

CHAPTER SEVEN 

^ I. Mission San Buenaventura: Its Gardens and 

" Padre Calma " 139 

II. The Memorable Voyage of Padre Vicente . . 144 

vii 

% 



Contois 

CHAPTER EIGHT 

I. Mission Santa Barbara, and of Padre Ripoll 

WHO Built It 157 

II. Love in the Padres' Garden 166 

CHAPTER NINE 

I. Mission Santa Ines, the Feast of All the Dead, 

and Other Pertinent Matters 179 

. II. Pasquala of Santa Ines 192 

CHAPTER TEN 

I. La Purisima: Its Mission and its Rebellion . . 207 
II. A Little Mystery of La Purisdia 213 

CHAPTER ELEVEN 

I. Mission San Luis Obispo de Tolosa: Its Bears 

and its Bells 227 

II. Fray Luis the Light-Hearted 236 

CHAPTER TWELVE 

I. Mission San Miguel Arcangel and the Case of 

the Gentile Guchapa 247 

11. The Tragedy of San Miguel 254 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

I. Mission San Antonio of the Oaks and the 

Tradition of the Friar who flew thither . .263 
11. A Christmas Pastoral 271 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

I. Mission Soledad, and how Papa Arrillaga's Soul 

LACKS A Mass 279 

II. Faithful unto Death 284 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

I. San Carlos de Monterey on the Carmel, and 

how Padre Junipero entered into Rest . . 291 
II. Gabriel the Old, of Mission Carmel .... 303 

viii 



CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

I. Mission San Juan Bautista and Padre Arroyo of 

THE Many Tongues 313 

II. "He hath made of one flesh ..." 321 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 

I. Looking in at Santa Cruz, and the Story of 

Padre Gil's Adventure in English . . . .327 
II. The Children of Holy Cross 333 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 

I. The Mission of Madre Santa Clara de Asis and 

her "Padre Santo" 339 

^ II. A Miracle of the Mail 349 

CHAPTER NINETEEN 

I. Mission San Jose: the Padre's Little Game at 

Tortillas, and some Remarks about Flogging 357 
11. The Music of the Missions 366 

CHAPTER TWENTY 

I. Mission Dolores and the Two Missions of the 

Contra Costa 381 

^ 11. The Rose and the Pine 392 

How to Reach the Missions 403 

Pronouncing Glossary of Spanish Words and Phrases . 407 



In the Dominican Sisters' Garden, Mission San 
Jose Half-title 

The San Carlos Mission at the Height of its 

Activity Frontispiece 

From a drawing by Eric Pape. 

San Diego de Alcala i 

Map showing Approximate Situations of the 
Franciscan Missions of California 3 

Brush Chapel, Cross, and Bells formerly at 
Santa Ysabel, an Outpost of Mission San 

Diego 26 

Like this, doubtless, were the temporary structures 
erected at the founding of all the Missions, and serv- 
ing until permanent buildings were established 

San Luis Rey 31 

Doorway and Old Fountain at Mission San Luis 
RJEY 34 

San Antonio de Pala 47 

San Juan Capistrano 63 

One of the Bells, Mission San Juan Capistrano 66 

San Gabriel ArcAngel 91 

San Fernando 109 

In the Rulned Church, Mission San Fernando .114 

San Buenaventura 137 

xi 



Santa Barbara 155 / 

Franciscan Brothers at Work, Mission Santa 
Barbara 162 ""' 

Santa In£s 177 

La Purisima 205 

San Luis Obispo 225 

San Miguel Arcangel 245 - 

San Antonio de Padua 261 

Old Adobe Outbuilding, said to have been used y 
as a Jail at Mission San Antonio de Padua . 266 

An interesting survival of Mission architecture, show- 
ing method of roofing, arching of windows, etc. 

SOLEDAD 277' 

San Carlos de Monterey on the Carmel . . .289 

San Juan Bautista 311 • 

In the Indian Cemetery, Mission San Juan 
Bautista 322 

Santa Cruz 325 

Drawn from a photograph copyrighted, igo4, by C. C. 
Pierce 6° Co., Los Angeles, Cal. 

Santa Clara de Asis 337 

San Jos:fi 355 

Dolores 379 

In the Cemetery, Mission Dolores, San Fran- 
cisco 382 



C^(X\>t^ Ont 



SAN DIEGO DE ALCALA 






i^l 



Mi 
















MAP SHOWING APPROXIMATE SITUATIONS OF THE 
FRANCISCAN MISSIONS OF CALIFORNIA 



San Diego de Alcala, the Mother Mission, and how 
THE Devil had a Beating there 

O! an Diego's antiquities center at Old Town — the adobe 
^^ cradle of modern California. There, in the spring of 
1769, foregathered the friars and leather-jacketed soldiers, 
the ships and the mule trains, the servants and the cattle of 
Portola's motley expedition; their purpose, to make a start at 
insuring the title of CathoHc Spain to her long-claimed Upper 
California coast, upon which Russia and England were show- 
ing signs of poimcing; the means, not arms, but religion. And 
there on July 16 of that year, upon the slope of a hill overlook- 
ing the San Diego River Valley and the placid mirror of False 
Bay, was founded very modestly the Mother Mission of 
California, and dedicated to St. James of Alcala. A wooden 
cross had been planted and blessed and a httle brush chapel 
constructed, and in it high mass was celebrated by Padres 
Junipero Serra and Fernando Parron. A few soldiers, mule- 
teers and Indian servants from the Missions of Lower Cali- 
fornia, kneeled on the ground while the aid of Mary Most 
Holy was implored for this undertaking of her suppliants who 
were zealous to put to flight the army of hell in the region 
roundabout, and place upon its savage folk the easy yoke of 
Christ. 

To-day all that remains of those beginnings of civilization 
in California is one ancient date palm and some mounds of 
melted adobe. Amid the latter rises a huge cross, built of 
pieces of square tile and bearing a commemorative inscription 
in Spanish and English. There were some little girls watching 

3 



me idling about, and I asked one where the tiles came from — 
from the old Mission buildings? "Oh, no, sir," she repHed 
joyously; " they come out of the ground. Us girls helped pick 
'em" — which I record as first-hand evidence for future 
antiquaries. 

It seems that first site proved undesirable for at least two 
reasons — proximity to the Presidio's corrupting influences, 
and lack of fertile soil at hand. The buildings were accord- 
ingly turned over to the Presidio in 1774, and a fresh start 
was made with the Mission at a place two leagues farther up 
the river where was an Indian rancheria called Nipaguay. 
That is the site of the Mission as we know it to-day, and, be- 
cause of the adjacent aboriginal village, it was often referred 
to as San Diego de Nipaguay. 

I found it a pleasant five-mile walk on an old-fashioned 
country road from Old Town to the Mission. Cattle grazed 
in the river bottom, half hidden in guatamote, as old San 
Diegans call the groundsel bushes; little ranch houses smiled 
at me from amidst their palms and olives, figs and pomegran- 
ates; and far ahead the mountains fifted their alluring peaks, 
cumulus clouds, thrust up by the desert, drifting along them. 
By this way walked the old ^ Padres, sandal-shod, journeying 
between Mission and port; and along it, too, the screeching 
ox carts, piled with hides and tallow, jolted their slow way to 
the beach when the droghers of Yankeedom awaited them 
there. No ox carts or Padres passed me, but an occasional 
automobile did; and from the crest of the hills that walled the 
little valley in at the south, the trim bungalows and villas of 
twentieth-century San Diego looked coldly down. Only a shy 
wild " rose of Castile," lifting its blessed face from the wayside 

^ I say "old," merely meaning long ago. In point of fact, most of the Mis- 
sionaries were youngish men — at least on the sunny side of forty — when they 
entered into their wilderness work. It took the enthusiasm and physical vigor 
of life's prime to carry forward an enterprise of that sort. 

4 



tangle, and the meadowlarks pouring liquid melody down the 
air, spoke of the Padres' day. 

Where the highway turns to cross the stream by a bridge, 
I cut down by an old wagon track through the willows and 
across the dry river bed to reach the Mission by the back way. 
Skirting the old olive orchard, whose olives, tradition says, 
were the equal of Seville's, I came to a white cross attached to 
a boxlike arrangement of paling fence, such as often encloses 
graves in Mexican cemeteries. There was no inscription, and 
the whole affair was tottering on the brink of a gully. A 
teamster was resting his horses near by and refreshing himself 
with a pull at his pipe. 

"That marks where a priest dropped once when he was 
killed by the Indians," he remarked, in reply to my inquiry. 
" Yess'r. You see, it was like this. In them days the Mission 
up there — you see it on the hill — was all walled in, they say, 
and this here priest, he was a young fellow, yess'r, and enthu- 
siastic like, and he said, begosh, he'd go outside and preach to 
the Indians, and the wall be hanged to it. Yess'r; and so he 
did; and, while he was preaching, one of them red devils up 
and shot him dead with a bow and arrow. Yess'r; and the 
Padre he dropped in his tracks, with his head where the cross 
is and his legs the other direction. They put that fence there 
to mark the place. Of course, the priest ain't there: they 
buried him up at Old Town safe enough. This here fence gits 
rotten every once in so often, and then they put up a new one. 
They're mighty partic'lar about that. Yess'r." 

In such crabbed fashion is the story of CaHfornia's first 
Christian martyrdom passed along; for the little cross does 
stand for that — hallowing the spot where, so far as known, 
Padre Luis Jayme ^ was brutally murdered. San Diego de 

^ There is a difference of authorities about this name. Engelhardt, who 
ought to know, writes it as above, which is the spelling in the Spanish text 

s 



Nipaguay had been established little over a year, and the zeal 
of Padre Jayme and his companero, Fr. Vicente Fuster, had 
been blessed with many conversions. On a single day, indeed, 
October 3, 1775, the remarkable record of sixty baptisms was 
made. This conspicuous encroachment upon the devil's king- 
dom, as Padre Palou, the Franciscan historian, saw the mat- 
ter, aroused "the infernal fury," and two apostate neophytes 
were diaboHcally inspired to spread a report throughout the 
tributary territory that the Padres had started a campaign to 
force all gentiles to embrace Christianity willy-nilly. Accord- 
ingly, a plot was hatched involving about five hundred gen- 
tiles ^ to wipe the Mission out of existence. 

Of this plot the Fathers had no warning: and when, in the 
middle of the night of November 4-5, Indian shouts and the 
glare of burning buildings aroused them from their beds, they 
thought only of some accident having occurred, and rushed 
out to see what. Fray Luis ran into the midst of a yelling 
mob whom, taking them for his neophytes, he saluted with 
the customary "Amar d Dios, mis hijos" — "Love God, my 
children." The response was a cruel shower of blows from 
wooden swords and stones, under which the bhnded friar 
dropped ; and then, like the proto-martyr of Christianity, he 
"fell asleep," a prayer upon his lips. When his body was 
found next day, near the river, it was, Palou tells us, without 
other garment than a garment of blood — a mass of wounds 
from head to foot — "only his consecrated hands uninjured." 

of Palou's Life of Serra. Bancroft, on the other hand, uniformly writes it 
Jaume, which I notice is the spelling of Serra 's manuscript preface to the San 
Diego Mission Book of Deaths and Burials. 

* In the language of the Franciscans, the unchristianized Indians were 
called "gentiles." When baptized and attached to the Mission, they were 
nedfitos, i.e., neophytes. Perhaps it need hardly be said that baptism, far 
from being forced on the Indians, was administered only after preliminary 
instruction; except, of course, in the case of infants, and then parents were 
consenting. 

6 



The total white population, opposed to that frenzied mob of 
five hundred, was but nine men and two boys. Of the eleven, 
two were killed outright and one mortally wounded ^ before 
the situation was realized; and one marvels that a single Span- 
iard lived to tell the tale. The remaining eight were soon 
forced out of the blazing buildings and took refuge in a small 
adobe enclosure, about eight feet square. Here, assailed on all 
sides, they fought it out with the courage of old Romans, their 
musketry and prayers to the saints pitted against Indian 
arrows, stones, and firebrands. In this devoted band (all, 
sooner or later, suffering from wounds) Padre Fuster made a 
striking figure. While two men reloaded the muskets and 
handed them up to the corporal to fire at the savages, who 
continued discharging their missiles imder cover of the dark, 
this doughty friar covered with his outspread skirts the stock 
of gunpowder, thus perilously shielding it from falling fire- 
brands. His trust in God was sure, but he was the sort that 
keeps the powder dry, too. 

With the dawn the cowardly crew made off to the hills. The 
night of horror was ended, and the neophytes, who claimed to 
have been imprisoned in their huts by the gentiles during the 
fight, straggled in to talk it over around the Mission's smoking 
ashes. Serra, when the news reached him, thanked God for 
the blessing of a martyr; for, now that the land was watered 
with such blood, gentilism could not longer hold out, he 
thought. Of course, the military government was for bloody 
vengeance; but Serra pleaded forgiveness, and, through his 

^ This man was a carpenter named Urselino, who gave a remarkable exhi- 
bition of practical Christianity. He was sick at the time of the attack, and 
some Indians shot arrows into him as he lay in bed. Feeling himself mortally 
struck, he cried: "Ha, India, que me has muertol Dios te lo perdone!" ("Ah,. 
Indian, you have killed me. May God forgive you!") He died a few days 
later, but, before he died, made a will, and, having no legal heirs, he left his 
estate (the savings of his wages for some years) to the selfsame Indians who had 
murdered him. Had a king done so, would not all the school-books record it? 



Z^t CaCifotnia ^cibxt^ 

influence with the Viceroy, carried his point — gaining for his 
graceless Indians a literal appUcation of the law of Christ; 
but, like the practical dreamer he was, he did not object to an 
increase in the Mission guard. "Let the living Padres," he 
exhorted, "be guarded as the apple of God's eye; but let the 
dead one be left to enjoy God : and thus good be returned for 
evil." There was no further uprising. The Mission was rebuilt 
the following year, Serra himself working with the rest, and 
the "conquest" was peacefully resumed as if nothing had 
happened. So successfully, indeed, did it proceed that San 
Diego was the first Mission to score one thousand baptisms, 
and was for years the most populous of all. Obviously Satan 
had met his match in Padre Junipero. 

The Mission church, whose fagade we now see, is not that 
which rose from the ashes of 1775, but is of much later date, 
having been finished and dedicated in November, 18 13. It 
was never architecturally ambitious, but the present wreck 
gives little idea of the original look. An old painting now in 
St. Joseph's rectory, San Diego, shows a triple-storied belfry 
at the west corner of the church. There were corridors, too, 
extending not only along the front of the convento wing where 
the Padres' living-rooms were (now practically gone), but 
before the church entrance also. 

It would seem as though of all the landmarks in California 
this Mother Mission should be especially cherished, holding 
as it does somewhere within its bounds the dust of the martyr 
Jayme, as well as of others of Serra's "seraphic and apostolic 
squadron"; yet none has been more shamefully treated. The 
French traveler Duflot de Mofras found it in 184 1 in sad dis- 
repair, its fields and vineyards waste for want of workers, and 
the only occupants of the decaying buildings one white family, 
a few Indians, and faithful old Padre Vicente Pascual de 
Oliva, an Arragonese Franciscan who had been there since 

8 



1820. His companion friar for sixteen years, Padre Jose 
Bernardo Sanchez, had passed away years before at San 
Gabriel. Fat and jovial with a kind word for everybody, 
Padre Jose died at last of a broken heart, it is said, because 
of the secularization of the Missions.^ In 1846 Padre Vicente, 
too, gave up the game, departing sadly to San Juan Capistrano 
where soon he was laid to rest. Then came the American 
soldiers, during the war with Mexico, occupying the build- 
ings as barracks and stables; and after them followed the 
stripping of timbers and tiles by rancheros in need of building 
material. 

To-day the Mission is all but abandoned. There are still 
a few acres of land belonging to it, which are farmed out, and 
from 1 89 1 until four or five years ago, a Sisters' school for 
Indian children flourished in a big barn of a building erected 
for the purpose hard by the Mission church. Some Federal 
law put a quietus on that educational effort, and now the 
schoolhouse is as silent as the Mission, save when divine ser- 
vice is held, as it is occasionally, in its tiny chapel. The visit- 
ing priest — a quiet, kindly Frenchman — happened to be 
present the day of my call, and showed me what there was to 
be seen: a few reUcs in the chapel, the remains of some ancient 
irrigation works that brought water from miles back in the 
hills, the old well at the foot of the slope whence a tunnel ran 
up to the Mission to connect the Fathers with their water 

^ Secularization, it may not be amiss to say, was in effect the depriving 
of the Missionaries of all control over the Mission's temporalities, which 
then reverted to the State, barring provision of a bit of land to each neophyte 
family. These Indians, however, seem rarely to have had wit enough to hold 
it long against white cupidity and aguardiente. The Missions thus became re- 
duced from what were practically great ecclesiastical manors to the status of 
parish churches. With this change of estate, the Missionaries in some instances 
left for fresh fields of usefulness: 'n other cases, remained with shorn author- 
ity as curates, to serve the Indians as spiritual fathers so long as life was spared 
them and there were any Indians left to serve. 



€^t CaCifotma ^cibxt& 



supply in event of an Indian siege. And, of course, the olive 
orchard was to be inspected — the first planted in California 
— and the fine old date palms. 

Excepting Carmel, no other Mission is so intimately asso- 
ciated with Junipero Serra as is San Diego, though these 
associations cluster more particularly about the original site 
at Old Town. It was there that occurred that dramatic vic- 
tory of his faith which is credited with saving the whole Mis- 
sion enterprise from the defeat that threatened it at its very 
outset. This first Mission began amid great discouragement. 
Scurvy had attacked the Spaniards to such an extent that 
their camp on the shores of the bay was literally a hospital, 
and men were daily dying. As time ran on, food supplies 
became low ; the Diegueno Indians, by no means of a kindly 
sort, were thieving and troublesome and had finally to be 
taught the lesson of gunpowder and lead to be held in check 
at all. Moreover, they were so indifferent to missionary effort 
that, for the first twelve months, not a single convert was 
made. Then the expedition of Portola northward in quest of 
the lost port of Monterey, had returned after six months' 
absence, reduced to the verge of starvation, "with the merit 
of having suffered much, eaten their mules, and finding no 
such port as Monterey," as Serra puts it. Worst of all, a ship 
that had been dispatched early in July (1769) to Mexico for 
suppHes and reinforcements, had still not returned in the fol- 
lowing February, and the days could be counted to the bot- 
tom of the barrel. Accordingly Portola, as commander of the 
expedition, notified Serra that if succor did not arrive by 
the day of the Feast of St. Joseph (that is, March 19, 1770), 
he would start back with all to Mexico on the day following. 
Remonstrance was futile. The bluff comandante declared the 
Mission might be a failure, anyhow, and he had not brought 
his men to that wilderness to perish of hunger. 

10 



This decision, if carried out, meant the postponement 
indefinitely, if not forever, of Serra's passionate desire to 
rescue Alta California from the grip of Satan — a glorious 
spiritual conquest which was the dream of his mediaeval soul. 
It was in anticipation of such a triumph that he had purposely 
selected for the founding of this first of his Missions the date 
of July 1 6, which, in the Catholic calendar, is the feast day of 
the Triumph of the Holy Cross — the day in 1 2 1 2 when Span- 
ish Christendom, under that holy standard on the field of Las 
Navas de Tolosa, broke forever the Moorish power in Spain. 
All the zeal of his intense spirit flamed up at the thought of 
possible frustration to his hopes, now, of all times, when the 
enemy was before his eyes. It had taken one hundred and 
sixty-six years since Vizcaino's christening of the harbor of 
San Diego de Alcala, to get an expedition there to found the 
Mission. If, now, this expedition departed, abandoning the 
pitiful little tule buildings to rot away within their stockade, 
might not its going be forever — para siempre jamas ? Night 
and day, Serra besieged the Throne of Heaven with his 
prayers, imploring God to bring the relief ship quickly that 
the work, undertaken for his glory, might go on. Meantime 
the heroic priest made up his mind that, even if the expe- 
dition did desert, he would himself remain if one friar would 
stay with him, and Padre Juan Crespi said he would be the 
one. Joyous Padre Juan! Is it any wonder that, as we 
shall see later, Serra's dying wish was to lie forever by his 
side at Carmel? So, we find Serra comfortably taking ad- 
vantage of some soldiers' going south to dispatch a letter to 
Palou in one of the Lower California Missions, requesting 
him to send up a supply of incense and holy oils. Of course, 
Heaven helped such a spirit. 

The Feast of St. Joseph at last arrived, but no sign of the 
ship; and the preparations for departure, which had been car- 

II 



ried on simultaneously with Serra's praying, were complete 
for the following morning. For nine consecutive days at the 
last, prayers had been addressed to St. Joseph himself, as 
patron of the California Spiritual Conquest (he had been so 
nominated before the expedition set out from Mexico), and 
the invocations culminated in a high mass. Then, as evening 
drew on, a response came. To the eyes of watchers scanning 
the lonely waters of the South Sea there appeared with per- 
fect distinctness a ship : and then it disappeared. But the sight 
was enough to stagger Portola, and the Mission got a reprieve. 
Four days later, the relief ship was seen heading gallantly 
into the harbor. She had, it seems, on leaving Mexico been 
ordered to make directly for Monterey where it was expected 
the Portola party would then be; but mishaps in the region of 
the Santa Barbara channel had forced her to put about and 
make for San Diego for repairs. Was that vision of St. Jo- 
seph's day really the ship, or was it a miracle graciously 
vouchsafed in response to the prayers of faith? Pious Padre 
Palou, who has recorded the details in his "Life" of Serra, has 
no doubt about its being a case of heavenly intervention; and 
had you been through all that lonely little band of Spaniards 
underwent for the best part of a year, you, too, would doubt- 
less join with them in giving God and St. Joseph the credit. 
As for Serra, so great were his joy and gratitude that he said 
high mass in honor of the Patriarch on the nineteenth of each 
month thereafter till the end of his life. 



II 

Padre Urbano's Umbrella 

|Y^ADRE Urbano, priest in charge of the Mission of San 
\p Diego, was in a bad humor. If he had been asked what 
was the most necessary article in the cargo of the supply ship 
Santiago on the first of her half-yearly visits in the year 1830, 
he would ahnost certainly have said, the umbrella. The can- 
dles were important, no doubt; so was the new altar-cloth, for 
the present one had become shockingly worn under the un- 
skillful treatment of the Indian lavanderas; so were the seeds, 
all the more so because he had included in the list seeds for an 
onion-bed, and onions were a delicacy to which his soul had 
long been a stranger. And many others of the articles he had 
named in his requisition had passed from a state of shortage 
into one of absolute vacancy on the storeroom shelves. But 
foremost in his thoughts was the umbrella. He had specified 
it with care, — such an umbrella as he had used in Spain, 
before ever he came to this destitute and heathen land; the 
size, a vara and a half across; the material, silk; the color, 
yellow; and as the warm spring sun smote ever more fervently 
upon his tonsured head, his thoughts had daily turned with 
yearning towards the good, ample quitasol that was to shield 
him from the fiery persecutions of his enemy, the prince of the 
power of the air. 

Well, the vessel had come that day, and with it the um- 
brella; and now, most cruelly dashing his long-cherished 
hopes, one of his Indians had stolen it! Moreover, to-morrow 
he was to start on his annual visitation of the outlying sta- 
tions, and he had especially rehed for comfort, on that long, 
hot, dusty round, upon the umbrella, — the fiend fly away 

13 



€^^ CaCifornia ^(k}>x^& 



with the miscreant who had taken it! thought the Father in 
his wrath. 

This is how it happened: The ship had sailed into the bay at 
early morning, and the lieutenant at the fort had straightway 
sent a runner up to the Mission with the cheering news, add- 
ing that the articles for the Father's personal use had been 
thoughtfully packed separately from the heavier goods, and 
the captain had obligingly kept the special package in his 
own cabin, so that it could be deUvered to the expectant 
consignee at once on arrival. The Father had immediately 
dispatched two of his most trusted Indians, Pio and Jose, to 
receive the goods, which the captain had promised to have 
brought ashore in the first boat-load. 

The sergeant who delivered the goods to the Indians, in 
order to make the unwieldy package easy of transportation 
by the two men over the two leagues of road that lay between 
the bay and the Mission, had unwisely opened it in the pres- 
ence of the Indians, so as to arrange the contents in two loads. 
The men had each taken one of the bundles and started for 
the Mission. In due course, Jose had arrived with his load, 
but alone, and in explanation had reported that at a mile or 
two from the bay his companion had fallen behind — to rest, 
as he supposed — while he continued on his way. After a 
time he had waited for Pio to come up, but the latter had not 
rejoined him. Jose had left his own load by the roadside and 
gone back to see what had become of him, but no trace was to 
be found of either Pio or his burden. There was nothing for 
him, Jose, to do but to continue on his way with his own part 
of the Padre's property, and here he was. Pio would doubtless 
come soon with the remainder. 

But Pio had not come, and the Father's fears, born as he 
listened to Jose's story, grew into angry certainty as hours 
passed and no Pio appeared. Examination of Jose's bundle 

14 



had revealed the altar-cloth, the ink, the sugar, the onion- 
seed, some books, and a few of the articles of clothing he 
expected, but the umbrella and part of the clothes were num- 
bered with the missing; and though the clothes were not only 
valuable but much needed, somehow it was the umbrella that 
made the head and front of the crime in the Father's mind. 
Calling the Indians together after vespers, he announced the 
theft, denounced the thief, and pronoimced his severest dis- 
pleasure, with punishments proportionate, against any who 
should fail to do all in his or her power toward the appre- 
hension of that ungrateful sinner, Pio. 

Let us see what had become of the rascal from the time 
when he disappeared. He had really dropped behind to rest, 
as Jose had supposed; but while resting, the desire had come 
to him to look again at that strange thing in his package. 
What could it be? He had seen the sergeant take it out of the 
box, a long, thin object; then he put his hand somewhere on it, 
and pushed, and, wonderful! it had changed in an instant into 
a huge flower! Such a flower! Yellow like a sunflower, nay, 
like a thousand sunflowers, or the sun itself. Then he had 
done something again, and all at once it was as it had been at 
first. Talk about magic! All the things his father, old Kla- 
quitch, the medicine-man, used to do were nothing to this. 
He simply must have another look at it, and now was his 
chance, while Jose, who might tell the Padre, could not see. 
He slipped the cords from the bimdle and took out the thing 
of mystery. A long stick, with some yellow cloth rolled round 
one end : but how to turn it into the other wonderful thing? 
He could not resist trying, and he felt about the stick, pushing 
this way and that, as he had seen the soldier do, and — it 
began to open. He pushed again — it was done; behold the 
magic sunflower, beautiful, wonderful! And turning it round 
and round he feasted his eyes on it, the most astonishing 

15 



' €^t Cafifotnia ^alxtB 

thing he had ever seen; yes, and done, for he, Pio, knew how 
to make the Big Flower open. 

That is where the tempter caught him. What power that 
would give him over the other Indians! What was Kla-quitch, 
with his painted sticks and bones, compared with him, if only- 
he were the possessor of this marvel! He should need no other 
stock in trade as medicine-man. The people would pay well 
to have it opened — that would be good medicine : and simply 
keeping it shut would be bad medicine: — delightfully easy! 
How did it shut, by the by? He fumbled at the stick, but it 
did not close: he pushed and pulled, it made no difference. 
He pressed on the cloth; an ominous creaking warned him 
that Big Flower objected to being shut by force, and threat- 
ened to break. 

A nice jBix he was in now: the genie he had raised would not 
down! He grew hot and cold by turns. Jose was far ahead by 
now: he ought to overtake him, but he could not appear be- 
fore the Padre like this. He did not know what the purpose 
of the thing was, but most likely it had something to do with 
the Church, and he knew how strict the Padre was about even 
the handling of such objects. What should he do? The 
tempter had the answer ready, — there was only one thing he 
could do, — run away with the magic thing and be a medicine- 
man, as his father had been, only he would be a much more 
powerful and cunning one. Sly tempter! Poor Pio! He had 
only meant to nibble, and here he was, fairly hooked. 

Well, since he was in for it, he had better get away before 
any one saw him. He caught up the clothes and the umbrella 
and hurried off into the brush. It was not easy for him to 
make his way along with the obstreperous load, and he soon 
discovered that the best way to manage the mnbrella was to 
carry it over his head. Very comforting he found it, too, 
though it did not for a moment occur to him that this was its 

i6 



real purpose. His plan was to go to his father's tribe, the 
Elcuanams, in the mountains far away. There he should be 
safe from the Padre, and should also have the prestige of his 
father's reputation. If there were another medicine-man in 
the tribe Pio could easily outrank him and capture the busi- 
ness. So he made a long detour, and came back by evening 
to the valley, but a mile or two above the Mission. It would 
be easier to travel with Big Flower by keeping to the river-bed 
instead of going through the brush, which constantly threat- 
ened to tear it. He had a faint idea that it might close of its 
own accord at evening, and glanced up anxiously several 
times to see if it was doing so; but evidently it was not that 
kind of flower. 

He heard the bells of the Mission ringing the Angelus, and 
shuddered as he thought of the wrathful Padre, no doubt now 
denouncing him publicly as a thief and renegade, and he 
hurried on till dark, when he found a sheltered spot and lay 
down. The night was chilly, and after a time the thought 
came to him that Big Flower would make a fine shelter : so he 
got up and arranged it so as to keep off the wind. Another 
idea: the clothes, why not put them on and be warm? It 
seemed a terrible thing to do, but he was running away from 
the Padre anyhow, so he might as well be comfortable as not. 
He got up again and spread out the clothes in the dim light: 
two woolen imdershirts, two pairs of unmentionables to 
match, four large handkerchiefs of red silk, three pairs of blue 
woolen stockings, and a queer, three-cornered article, white, 
with strings, which he took to be some kind of pouch, but, by 
a happy thought, found to make an agreeable protection for 
the head. Also there was a pair of thick slippers of dark felt.. 
He rolled the handkerchiefs up in a ball, and then drew on all. 
the other garments except the slippers, not troubling to first 
remove his own scanty clothes consisting of a cotton jacket 

17 



€^t CaCifovnia ^cCbxts 

and pantaloons. He now felt pretty comfortable, and l3dng 
down again was soon fast asleep. 

When he awoke it was early morning. It was still cold, and 
he kept the clothes on. Indeed, it occurred to him that this 
was just the thing to do; it was much easier than carr3dng the 
bundle in one hand while Big Flower occupied the other. He 
would still have the shppers to carry, for he saw that they 
would soon be worn out if he wore them. With a few edible 
roots and berries he made a sort of breakfast, not without 
pensive recollection of the warm atole now being dished out at 
the Mission. When he was ready to go on he thought of the 
morning prayers at the Mission, and believing Big Flower to 
be something connected with the Church, the natural thing 
to do was to say his prayers before it, which he did, and then 
started on his way. After a few miles he knew he was near the 
shut-in valley (which we call El Cajon) and he remembered 
that there were Indians there who might know him. It is 
doubtful, really, whether any of his acquaintances would have 
stopped to recognize him had they caught sight of the figure 
he made, for it is safe to say that no such spectacle had ever 
been seen thereabouts as our friend Pio made, attired in the 
Father's imderclothes, adorned with a nightcap, and carrying 
in one hand a vast yellow umbrella and in the other a pair of 
slippers. The handkerchiefs, much too fine to be wasted, he 
had tied together by the corners and made into a sash, such as 
he had seen the Mexican caballeros wear; and in his piebald 
of red, white, and blue, he made altogether a decidedly strik- 
ing appearance. 

As he was considering turning aside and making another 
detour, he had an object lesson of the effect he produced upon 
his coimtrymen. An Indian appeared at a little distance. He 
was gathering wood, and as he straightened from stooping his 
eyes fell upon Pio. With a yell he dropped his load and fled at 

i8 



topmost speed, emitting such sounds as we try, but vainly, to 
utter in a nightmare. This, though a tribute to Pio's impres- 
sive aspect, and a gratifying omen of his success in the role of 
medicine-man, was also a warning of danger. He dived again 
into the brush and devoted strenuous hours to threading his 
way through thickets of chaparral until he emerged on the 
trail that led northeast into the heart of the mountains. Big 
Flower was happily intact, and the nightcap also except for a 
missing string, but the outer layer of the other garments had 
paid toll to many an affectionate scrub-oak and manzanita, 
and the stockings that had stood the brunt were practically 
footless. Pio surveyed the damage ruefully, and rebuked him- 
self for not having preserved his new property by wearing his 
own clothes outside. He would make the change now, and as 
it was getting hot he decided to wear only one set of the un- 
dergarments (the damaged ones) under his own clothes, and 
to carry the others. When the change was made, he hurried 
on. He had made one or two more attempts to make Big 
Flower close, but had not succeeded, so he now marched along 
in a businesslike way under the great parasol, apparently an 
Indian gentleman more than usually careful of his complex- 
ion, taking a brisk walk. 

One thing, however, he had to attend to, the question of 
food, for he was getting very hungry. He was now on a steep 
trail that led up to the valley now known as the Santa Maria, 
and there, he knew, was another rancheria, or village. Here, 
too, he might be known, but he must take the chance : he must 
have food, and would boldly go and ask for it. As he pushed 
his way through the trees he came unexpectedly upon three 
fat squaws who were sitting beside the creek, pounding acorns 
and grass seeds into meal. Just as he saw them, they saw him, 
umbrella, nightcap, slippers, and all. There was one shriek, 
or rather, a trio of shrieks that sounded like one, and the 

19 



€^t Cafifovnia ^abtre^ 

women rushed like deer (albeit very fat deer) down the creek, 
and Pio heard them gabbling at top voice to what he knew 
must be the assembled and startled rancheria. 

Our friend was a philosophical fellow, as we have seen, and 
as the natural thing to do was to gather up the little piles of 
meal, tie them up in the extra shirt, and make off with them, 
he did it. There was no need now for him to trouble the vil- 
lage, so he quietly withdrew by the way he had come, and, 
guided by the excited sounds that still reached his ears, made 
a roundabout way back to the trail, striking it beyond the 
village. At the next water, he mixed some of the meal into a 
gruel and ate it. It was not very palatable, and again he 
thought of the good food at the Mission, from which he was 
now forever debarred. But a look at Big Flower, gleaming 
like a great golden mushroom in the sun, consoled him, as he 
thought of the wealth and power he would enjoy among his 
tribe by means of this unparalleled marvel. 

Night found him halfway between the Santa Maria Valley 
and the next higher one, to which the Spaniards who had first 
seen it had given the name of Ballena, from the long mountain, 
Uke a whale in outline, that shuts it in on the northwest. He 
found water, made a fire in the time-honored Indian way by 
rubbing two dry sticks together, and cooked the remaining 
meal. There was enough for a good supper, and some over, 
which he made into little cakes, drying them hard on the hot 
stones. He put on all the clothes again to sleep in, and made 
a wind-break as before with the umbrella. It was really more 
comfortable than the hard bed in his hut at the Mission, and 
he felt more than contented, even jubilant, over the change 
in his fortunes. 

In the morning he said his prayers again before Big Flower, 
and started on his way early. He had pulled on the extra 
clothing at night over what he was then wearing, and as the 

20 



morning was cold, and the trail good, so that the clothes 
would not be harmed, he did not take them off, except the 
extra stockings, nor change so as to wear his own outside. 
Thus he again presented the tricolor aspect that had paralyzed 
the natives he had met. It now occurred to him to make a 
little experiment, a sort of trial canter, of his new profession, 
upon the Indians in the next valley. He was not far now from 
his own village of the Elcuanams, and might as well be getting 
into training. He would avoid surprising any stragglers at 
the next village, and would get into touch with the head men, 
explaining that he was the long-lost son of Kla-quitch, who 
had escaped after all these years from the Mission, and had 
come back, learned in all the knowledge of the white men and 
armed further with this most wonderful appliance of magic, 
to take his place as hereditary medicine-man of his tribe. He 
should see by that means what sort of impression he would 
be likely to make on his own people. Nominally they were 
Christians; but they were hardly ever visited by the priest, 
and he knew that the bulk of them were still much as in 
his father's day, and still placed reliance on the fetishes of 
the shamans. 

Accordingly he made his approaches to the Ballena village 
with caution. It was about noon when he came near, and he 
could see, as he reconnoitered, that a group of men were talk- 
ing together in the open space about which the houses were 
irregularly placed. That was excellent. He crept cautiously 
near, having some trouble to keep the umbrella out of sight 
till the psychological moment : and then, holding it high over- 
head with one hand and the slippers and extra garments in 
the other, in token of amity, he uttered the orthodox Indian 
greeting which answers to our "How d' ye do? " and advanced 
upon them. 

They looked up all together : there was a yell that wakened 

21 



^^t Cafifoma ^abt:e0 



echoes that had slept for many a year; and in a twinkling 
the plaza (so to call it) was empty but for himself, and the 
braves were dodging about behind the houses in mortal 
terror of the hideous monster, worse than the white men, 
for he was an unheard-of, polychromatic kind of being, not 
only white, but red, blue, and yellow as well. It was no 
doubt the monster of whom the priest had warned them, who 
would appear one day, if they were not careful of their Chris- 
tian duties (and they could not say they had been) , and de- 
stroy them all and bum their village. The thing he had in his 
hand was doubtless the torch — see how it shone, just like 
fire! In vain poor Pio declaimed his speech: it fell on ears too 
demoralized to hear; and when one or two of them began to 
fit arrows to their bowstrings, the best thing to do was plainly 
to beat a prompt retreat. This he did, holding Big Flower 
ignominiously behind him to catch the arrows that he ex- 
pected every moment to hear whizzing about him. 

He ran for some distance till he was out of sight of the in- 
hospitable village, and then sat down to rest and think. The 
adventure began to take on an unpleasant complexion. If 
every one he came near acted like this he could not be a medi- 
cine-man, for there would be no one on whom to practice; and 
the bow and arrow episode was really alarming. What if his 
own people refused to hear him? No one would recognize him 
there, for he was a boy when he had been taken to the Mis- 
sion, and he had never been chosen to accompany the Padre 
on his rare visitations to the Elcuanams, as it had been thought 
wise not to allow him to return to the old surroundings. What 
had he better do? Of course he might discard Big Flower and 
all the other fine things, and return to his people an undis- 
tinguished runaway from the Mission (as not a few others had 
done, to the scandal of good Father Urbano); but he could 
not bring himself to that, not yet, at least. Well, he would 

22 



go on: probably the well-remembered name of Kla-quitch 
would make it all right. 

His discouragement over the Ballena reception caused him 
to travel slowly, and it was nearly sunset when he drew near 
the Elcuanam village. It had been a cool day, so he had kept 
all the clothes on (except the extra stockings). The village 
was in an open place, near the upper end of a wide valley, and 
he could see it and be seen from it for a good distance. He 
could not think of a better plan of operations than the one he 
had tried at Ballena, badly as it had worked there: namely, 
to maneuver so as to make his first appearance when a num- 
ber of the chief men were together, and then get the name 
of Kla-quitch to their ears as quickly as possible. That would 
arrest their attention, and further particulars could follow. 

When he came in sight of the rancheria he stopped and sat 
down to bide his time. Only a few women and children and 
an old man or two were about: the braves were probably out 
hunting, or, perhaps, bravely sleeping until the squaws should 
announce that supper was served. So he waited, hidden be- 
hind a rise of ground. At last the men, to the number of ten 
or a dozen, had congregated for the evening lounge and pow- 
wow. Pio slipped into the shadow of one of the little houses 
whence he could issue in full view of the conclave. He settled 
the nightcap on his head, grasped the umbrella in one hand 
and the sUppers and stockings in the other, and at a lull in the 
conversation advanced. He had decided to dispense with the 
"How d'ye do?" in order to play his best card at once: so as 
he stepped into the light of the fire he merely uttered in a 
loud tone the word "Kla-quitch," to catch their attention. 
He succeeded. A dozen startled heads turned toward him, 
and as he spoke his taUsman again, and moved toward them, 
there came a hysterical howl from a dozen most unmusical 
throats, and his audience, followed by the women, children, 

23 



€^t Cafifotnia {pcibxt& 



and dogs of the village, all shrieking in chorus, vanished into 
the night. It was a striking tribute to the memory and 
prowess of Kla-quitch (who, it was naturally supposed, had 
appeared and announced his return from the spirit world); 
but it was far from being what his son and intending successor 
had hoped. 

This was the very dickens (or whatever the Elcuanam 
equivalent may be) , for poor Pio ! Whatever was he to do now? 
He prowled about among the houses trying to find some one 
to whom to explain, but the panic had swept even the old 
men and women away. He could hear the people calling to 
one another from their spots of refuge, and ever the burden 
of the shout was either "Kla-quitch!" or "Yellow!" — that 
is to say, the Elcuanam word for that suddenly unpopular 
color. He began to feel bitterly toward Big Flower, the cause, 
it seemed, of so much trouble, and even toward his departed 
parent, whose name, so long after his death, was such very 
bad medicine as to wreck his son's chances everywhere. 

He squatted down by the fire, hoping that some of the men 
would return after a time, but none came. After sitting again 
by the fire for two hours or so, hoping vainly for company and 
pondering on his doubtful future, he felt sleepy, and stretched 
out with his feet to the blaze, not forgetting to set up his 
wind-break, really the only thing, he began to think, that Big 
Flower was good for. 

He did not wake till morning, when he looked round anx- 
iously. He could see the whole population gathered a quar- 
ter of a mile away, pointing toward him and skirmishing for 
the best positions for viewing his actions. Evidently he was 
taboo for good and all, and the vision he had had of himself 
as the feared and prosperous medicine-man of his tribe had 
been a very fancy portrait: feared he certainly was, but there 
it ended. It looked as if he had to choose between being a 

24 



ant> i^^ix (JUt00ion0 



medicine-man all by himself, or abandoning all his parapher- 
nalia and, after a day or two's judicious absence, rejoining 
his tribe in the humble capacity of a mere runaway from 
the Mission. 

Meanwhile he found some food — with difficulty, for the 
proprietors had removed their valuables during the night — 
and made a middling breakfast. He had not fully determined 
what to do, so he stayed where he was until his next step 
should become clearer. The morning passed slowly, with no 
developments. He kept an eye on the crowd of watchers, 
and once or twice he was puzzled to see that they pointed not 
only at him, but along the trail to the south, by which he had 
come. 

Let us now go back a few hours, and take a look at Padre 
Urbano. We shall find him, not at the Mission, but only a 
few miles away — in fact, at Ballena. He had started on his 
visitations the next day after Pio's defalcation, and in any- 
thing but good temper. He had come, with his little party 
of half a dozen Indians, by the same general route that Pio 
had traveled, and had been only a few hours behind him. He 
did not stop at the Cajon and Santa Maria villages, as he 
meant to attend to his pastoral duties in those places on his 
return; but rumors reached him of some apparition having 
been seen by the natives. He knew these superstitious people 
only too well, however, and smiled at their creduHty. At 
Ballena he stayed for the night, and was entertained with a 
more circumstantial account of a parti-colored demon who 
had been chased out of the village at arrow's point: but as 
he had not had time to check up the shortage in his clothes 
before leaving home, he did not recognize Pio under the des- 
scription. He told the Indians, on general principles, that it 
was, as they supposed, a monster who had scented their slack- 
ness in religious affairs, and who would certainly call again if 

25 



€^t CaCifovnia ^cibxtB 



they did not amend, and next time would not be so easily put 
off. 

He left the Ballena rancheria early and started for El- 
cuanam. This was the farthest from headquarters of all his 
parishes. An outpost station had been estabhshed there nine 
years before, under the name of Santa Ysabel, but, with only 
yearly visits since then, it was in a moribund condition and 
had not progressed beyond the architectural stage of a ramada, 
or brush shelter. A message had been sent a few days before 
(without Pio's knowledge, as it happened), telling the In- 
dians to get the ramada ready for use, and giving the time of 
the Padre's intended arrival. 

The Uttle procession. Padre, six Indians, and two burros 
carrying the necessaries for the observance of mass, wound 
its way slowly up from the lower to the higher valley, and 
just before noon arrived at the top of the last rise before the 
Elcuanam, or Santa Ysabel, village should be reached. The 
Father was in the lead, our early acquaintance Jose close 
behind. They halted for a moment to rest before going on to 
the village. The Father noticed with gratification that the 
whole population was stationed on a hillock just beyond the 
village, evidently in expectation of his arrival; but he won- 
dered why the foolish people waited there, instead of hasten- 
ing to meet him. They had caught sight of him, for he saw 
them gesticulate, and it seemed to him that they pointed to- 
ward the houses, as if to draw his attention to something. So 
he looked, and his eyes caught the gleam of a large yellow ob- 
ject, set up as if it were a shrine, in the center of the village. 
Very odd, he thought; what had the silly Indians been up to 
now? They moved on toward the village, and as they ap- 
proached, the Elcuanams cautiously approached also. When 
the Father arrived pretty near, he stopped, gazed hard, 
rubbed his eyes, gazed again, and then said to Jose, "Jose, 

26 




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c/5 t:2 



your eyes are better than mine: what is that in the village?" 
Jose's eyes were already starting from his head, as if to get 
a better focus on what he saw. "Padre," he said, almost in 
a whisper, "I think it is the yellow thing that Pio stole. 
The sergeant made it open when we went for the package, 
and it was like that." "Holy Saints!" cried the Father; "it 
looks like that to me, too, but it cannot be. How could my 
umbrella get to Santa Ysabel? And what has become of 
Pio? If it is the umbrella, he must have brought it here." 
"Padre," said Jose, "there he is. I think it is Pio, but he 
looks very funny, and he is kneeling in front of the yellow 
thing as if he was saying his prayers." "Saying his prayers!" 
said the priest with warmth; "indeed, he had better say his 
prayers if it is he!" And the party hurried forward. 

As we know, there was no mistake about its being Pio. As 
for the prayers, — an unusual demonstration from the El- 
cuanams had caused him to glance again to the trail where 
they were pointing. There his horrified eyes had seen what 
seemed a miracle, but a most unfortunate miracle for him — 
Padre Urbano himself, a sight' as unmistakable as unbeliev- 
able. Panic seized him, but on the instant he had an inspira- 
tion, too : he was caught, and something awful was bound to 
happen; but why not at least make an attempt to disarm the 
Father's indignation by being caught in the attitude of 
worship, which the Padre was everlastingly inculcating? It 
might not mitigate his wrath, but then it might. He propped 
the unlucky Big Flower up so that it would stand, hurriedly 
stuffed a pair of stockings into each slipper, dropped them 
beside the umbrella, and then fell on his knees and began to 
patter Ave Marias, faster, and much more fervently, than he 
had ever said them before the altar at the Mission. In his 
haste he forgot to take off the nightcap, though, indeed, he 
hardly viewed it in the light of a hat, or cap. 

27 



t'^t Cafifotnta ^ixbttB 

In this position the culprit was found by the Padre and his 
escort, and also by the Elcuanams, who, emboldened by the 
Father's fearless demeanor, had ventured back to the zone of 
danger. "Pio!" cried the Father, "get up and show yourself, 
if it is you. Sancta Maria! what is all this? Why, those are 
my clothes you are wearing, you graceless rascal! Take 
them off instantly, and teU me what you mean by this out- 
rage. Bring him to me in the ramada, Jose, and be sure you 
bring the umbrella. Praise to the Saints! I have found it, 
and it seems to be undamaged, after all." 

On the way to the ramada the Father could not help look- 
ing round once or twice at the prisoner, who followed with 
hangdog look, escorted by the scandalized Indians from the 
Mission and a mob of astounded Elcuanams. His indigna- 
tion began to melt as he thought of the miraculous recovery of 
the umbrella, and, since he was a genial and lenient soul, each 
glance he took at the wretched Pio tickled his risibles more 
and more, until his shoulders shook with merriment. Arrived 
at the court of justice he managed to get up an aspect of 
terrific severity as the malefactor was led in by Jose. The 
umbrella and the other incriminating evidence were deposited 
beside him. The Elcuanams and the other Indians, crowding 
about the entrance, crooked their necks with anxiety to see 
what would happen. Pio had not yet disrobed, and stood 
dolefully awaiting the worst, from nightcap to stockings a 
clownlike and altogether incomprehensible figure. Again the 
Father's funny vein got the better of him. He knew that he 
was compromising himself forever, but for the life of him he 
could not help it — his lip trembled, he tried to control it but 
failed, he chuckled, giggled, cackled, and burst into a roar of 
laughter. 

It was no use to think of punishment after that. When 
Father Urbano at last got the shreds of his dignity together, 

28 



the whole history was extorted from the trembling Pio, who, 
however, was shrewd enough to say nothing of his pagan 
dream of turning medicine-man. Gladly enough he shed the 
unlucky clothing. Vast quantities of water were brought 
from the spring and blessed by the Padre: the imibrella was 
sprinkled and sprinkled till no taint could remain; and then 
Pio, guarded by Jose, spent the afternoon in scrubbing the 
desecrated garments with bucket after bucket of holy water, 
while the assembled village, down to the smallest papoose, 
jeered at that most ignominious of spectacles — a man, wash- 
ing clothes like a squaw! 

To complete Pio's penance, it was his task to carry the 
umbrella over the Padre during all the rest of the round of 
visitations, which, it seemed to him, as he marched mile after 
mile with aching arms, would never end. But end it did, and 
Father Urbano's umbrella at last arrived at its original des- 
tination, San Diego Mission. Finally, after many and vari- 
ous further peregrinations, it ended its travels at the sister 
Mission of Santa Ines, where to-day the reader may find it 
reposing, a treasured item in Father Alexander Buckler's cu- 
rious collection of relics. It is but fair to say, however, 
that I am doubtful whether Good Father Alexander will 
vouch for my story of its early adventures. 



SAN LUIS REY 




Mission San Luis Rey de Francia, and Somewhat of 
THE Padre Who Does not Die 

T^RAVELERs by rail, intending for San Luis Rey, leave the 
^^ train at Oceanside whence the four miles to the Mission 
in its beautiful valley may be done as one chooses. I set out, 
camera on shoulder, to walk it in the sparkling freshness of a 
sunny morning succeeding a showery night; but soon a soci- 
able Jewish peddler, overtaking me in a buggy, invited me to 
share a seat with him. At a crossroad, somewhat short of the 
Mission, he set me down, our ways parting there, and assum- 
ing me to be an itinerant portrait photographer, earnestly 
advised me to come again after the walnut-picking when 
everybody would be flush and I could make "a fortune of 
money" taking their pictures. 

I had visited San Luis Rey in other years, when it was com- 
pletely and frankly in ruins, save as to the church, and that 
with its scaling plaster and mellow color had the picturesque 
charm of half a ruin. So it was a shock to find that morning 
a smugly restored two-storied convento with a hard, white, 
cheerless front corridor unrelieved by vine or flower. The 
facade of the noble church, too, and the campo santo wall were 
sleekly plastered in glaring white, the decorations startlingly 
outlined in red. Remembering the dignified beauty of the 
dilapidated old edifice of ten years before, sunning itself under 
the sky like a Spanish hidalgo of broken fortunes in his ragged 
cloak, I could have cried for vexation at the sight of that spick- 
and-span product of plumb-line and rule. It was not until I 
bethought me of the mellowing influence that Time could be 

33 



'^^t Caftfomia ^cibxtB 



depended upon to exert and the fact that meantime the de- 
vastation of the elements had been stopped, that I felt recon- 
ciled to proceed farther, and touch the bell of the convento. 
A small community of Franciscans inhabit the Mission, and, 
responding to my ring, there shortly appeared a Brother in 
a brown skull-cap matching his brown robe. He was a tall 
man of comfortable girth, with a good-humored face and a 
fatherly manner; and he went about the task of showing me 
over the premises with the leisurely thoroughness of one who 
lived only for that purpose. 

Passing from the corridor to the low, broad platform of 
square Mission tiles, or ladrillos, before the church door, the 
friar paused: "Here," said he with a smack of Germany in 
his accent, "the Indian band of forty pieces used to play of 
efenings. All this ground in front of the Mission was a plaza 
then. There were games and good times in the efening, after 
the day's work was over. This pavement looks new, but it is 
not. It is the original bricks; but, when we began restoring, 
we found them so worn we just turned them bottom- up, and 
it makes a smooth pavement yet. Look, I want to show you" 
— and the Brother, stooping, put his finger on a depression 
in one. "You see that mark? — the print of an Indian child's 
foot: it stepped there, the little foot, when the tile was soft 
yet — so many years ago." 

He unlocked" the church door and we entered into the still- 
ness and twilight of the building. It is larger, they say, than 
San Juan Capistrano's great church was. 

"For forty-six years, from 1846 to '92," the Brother went 
on, "the church was abandoned, left to the owls and bats and 
human vandals. Is n't it a miracle that anything is left? And 
in the Mexican War it was bombarded by cannons to drive 
out some poor Indians who hung around yet after the last 
Missionary had died. Then came the soldiers in and camped 

34 




DOORWAY AND OLD FOUNTAIN AT MISSION SAN LUIS KEY 



for ten months. Ach, but it was a sorry wreck when the priests 
came again in 1892 and built their college across the way. 
Eferything that could be made use of had been carried away 
by people to build houses, timbers and railings and tiles — 
anything they had a mind to — not scrupling to rob the house 
of God. Yes, images of saints were chopped down, and fools 
hunting for buried money had dug up all the ground about the 
sanctuary. And the Mission lands that once stretched away 
north twenty, thirty miles, and away east as far as San 
Jacinto, they all were taken. That is what secularization 
meant. But let me tell you, mein friendt, as the old saying 
is, 'Who lives off the Pope, dies by the Pope': and the de- 
scendants of those robbers of Mission property, they do not 
prosper — no, no; there's a curse on their goods. But, 
though we haf no more much property, and the Indians are 
all gone, the work goes on. There are many people in the 
country now, and the Sisters' school across the road, they 
haf many scholars, and efery morning at eight o'clock is 
mass for them; and we haf our gardens once more and young 
orchards are growing, and already are vegetables for the 
school and ourselves both." 

All this chat as we walked leisurely the length of the 
church, with a look, now at Padre Peyri's old adobe font with 
its built-in bowl of stone, now at the Indian mural adorn- 
ments restored to their aboriginal red, blue, green, and yellow, 
and again at divers other matters now forgotten. A side 
chapel, octagonal in shape, projecting into the old cemetery, 
was of more than ordinary interest with an altar of really 
exquisite workmanship. Here, it seems, the mortuary services 
of the Indians were held; and, morning and evening, at such 
times, they came hither to utter their wailings and mournings. 

"It was like the ancient Jews in the Bible," said the 
Brother. "The noise was disturbing in the main church; so 

35 



t^t CaCifotrnia ^(Xbu& 



the Fathers had them come here. It is good now for private 
devotions." 

Over it a domed roof of tile and plaster was being restored 
by an expeditious little fraile in a tattered straw hat, his 
soiled brown gown tucked up under his girdle and two paisa- 
nos assisting him. 

*'He is a Mexican Brother," said my fraile; "the Americans 
don't know how to make a dome of tiles, like that. And now, 
you must go up into the bell tower for a view of the country, 
and that will be all." 

At the top of a winding staircase I came among the bells 
and there was indeed a view — mile after mile of lonely lomas, 
with only here and there a cluster of blue-gum trees betoken- 
ing the presence of some rancher's home. A sinuous line of 
yellowing willows and cottonwoods marked the course of the 
San Luis Rey River, seawardbound from the other side of 
Palomar veiled in a tender blue haze. To the northeast 
stretched the white crests of San Jacinto and the San Ber- 
nardino sierra — one lone ethereal snowbank, poised be- 
tween heaven and earth. It was a beautiful picture of rural 
peace to carry away in my memory, but I did not like the 
Brother's sentence of finality. I had a recollection from my 
former visit of a particularly fine old doorway somewhere, by 
a flight of steps that led to the choir loft, against an outer 
wall, as at San Gabriel. Where was it? The big Brother 
looked down at me indulgently. 

"You will haf to go inside the convento to see that, for it is 
now built about," he remarked. "If you were now a woman, 
I could not let you within the convento, but you are a man, 
and it is permitted. Come." And he led the way out of the 
church to the cloisters within. 

"We haf not yet any place for guests," he lamented, as we 
walked together. "Not long ago, a gentleman and his wife 

36 



anb ii}txx (VUwsionB 



they came one efening in their carriage, and I was so humili- 
ated that we haf no room for such a family that want to 
camp," 

Turning into an echoing inner corridor we came to a small 
courtyard, two sides of it new and sleek, but one, thank 
Heaven, still as of yore with its time-stained, broken plaster; 
and there, opening through it, was the side door of my mem- 
ory — a doorway with simple but beautiful pillars, capitals, 
and mouldings, just as it was when the processions of Indians 
went chanting in and out in Padre Peyri's time — a lovely 
relic of the best in Mission architecture. The little patio was 
paved with big, square ladrillos, worn and moss-grown, and 
an ancient fountain, broken and waterless now, still remained 
in the midst. Here the Brother, having other matters to at- 
tend to, excused himself, shook my hand, and enjoined me 
to take any photographs I wanted, make myself at home, and 
leave when I was ready without further ceremony. For an 
hour I loitered about in quiet undisturbed, except for the 
scratching of a rake in the hands of a Brother at work among 
his roses and callas in the garden of the larger patio adjoin- 
ing, and the occasional footfalls of some other Brother as he 
pattered along the inside corridors. 

As I set out to depart by the door through which I had been 
brought, I encountered the big Brother again. 

"And haf you seen all?" he inquired. "Ach, but I must 
show you Father Peyri's music-book." 

He preceded me into a little room where a few broken old 
relics lay, and among them a huge hide-bound volume, some 
two feet square. The friar had all he wanted to do to lift it 
from the floor, and open it in the hght of the deep window 
seat, that I might see. It was an excellent specimen of Mis- 
sion work, with great square notes in black and red, and let- 
tering so big and fair the blind might almost read it; and all 

37 



€^t Cafifotnia ^cibxt^ 



on yellow, crinkly vellum, made, I take it, from San Luis Rey 
skins. It brought "Ramona" to my mind, and I could imag- 
ine Alessandro's father, old Pablo, whom the novel makes 
choir-master at this Mission, singing from the pages. 

In point of size the Mission San Luis Rey was the king of 
them all, both as to the extent of its buildings and the popu- 
lation of its Indian village, which, at the crest of its pros- 
perity (in 1826), numbered 2869. As for the church, if it 
lacked something of the magnificence of San Juan Capis- 
trano's stone edifice in its prime, that was simply because 
adobe — the material used for San Luis — falls short of stone 
in its possibilities. Alfred Robinson, a Yankee trader who 
settled in CaUfornia and who visited San Luis Rey in 1829, 
has left a graphic picture of it in his "Life in California." 
What he saw was typical of California Mission life generally. 
Of the neophytes, ''some were engaged in agriculture, while 
others attended to the management of over 60,000 head of 
cattle.^ Many were carpenters, masons, coopers, sadlers, 
shoemakers, weavers, etc., while the females were employed 
in spinning and preparing wool for their looms, which pro- 
duced a sufficiency of blankets for their yearly consumption. 
Thus every one had his particular vocation, and each depart- 
ment its official superintendent or alcalde. These were sub- 
ject to the supervision of one or more Spanish mayordomos, 
who were appointed by the missionary Father. . . . The build- 
ing occupies a large square of at least eighty or ninety yards 
each side ... in the center of which a fountain constantly 
supplies the establishment with pure water. The front is pro- 
tected by a long corridor, supported by thirty-two arches 
ornamented with latticed railings. . . . The interior is divided 

1 Bancroft's figures, based on an examination of the ofl&cial records, are, at 
the highest, some 28,000 cattle, 28,000 sheep, and 2500 horses and mules. 
Popular estimates of Mission stock have usually been greatly exaggerated. 

38 



into apartments for the missionary and mayordomos, store- 
rooms, workshops, hospitals, rooms for unmarried males and 
females. ... In the interior of the square might be seen the 
various trades at work. . . . Adjoining are two large gardens, 
which supply the table with fruit and vegetables, and two or 
three large ranchos or farms . . . where the Indians are em- 
ployed in cultivation, and domesticating cattle." 

The founding of the Mission was in 1798, the location being 
then known as San Juan Capistrano el Viejo. Portola's party 
had camped there on July 18, 1769, on their way north, in 
search of Monterey; and Padre Crespi, who has left a diary of 
the trip, makes this note of the matter: "We gave to this val- 
ley, which is excellent for a Mission, the name San Juan 
Capistrano, so that this glorious saint, who in his hfetime con- 
verted so many souls to God, would pray Heaven for the con- 
version of these poor Gentiles, to whom on the next morning 
we addressed a few words about God and Jesus Christ, heaven 
and hell. They seemed to comprehend somewhat." Who will 
say the saint did not hear? For when the Mission was even- 
tually founded here, — though named for another than him 
of Capistrano, — it prospered from the start. The building 
of the great church that we now see must have been com- 
menced very promptly, for the records state it was com- 
pleted in 1802. This was a remarkable accomphshment for an 
infant Mission in a bare wilderness with only Indians for 
laborers. San Luis Rey, however, had for its architect and 
director one of the ablest and most energetic of all the Francis- 
cans — Padre Antonio Peyri, whose parental rule extended 
from the very hour of the founding until the coming event 
of secularization cast its black shadow athwart the Mission 
doors. He had, of course, a companion friar at times; but 
such came and went: Peyri never left, and for years he was 
the only priest. For thirty-three years he threw himself self- 

39 



t^^t CaCifotnta ^abus 



sacrificingly, and with all the ardor of an intense nature, into 
the task of building up this Mission. Working and praying 
ceaselessly, he had success abundantly. To deliver this sacred 
trust of his life into the hands of a self-seeking secular gov- 
ernment, to be dismembered and in general played ducks and 
drakes with, was more than his spirit could bear; and, one 
night in 1831, he fled secretly, never to return, abandoning 
the Mission to the inevitable. Tradition has it that when his 
neophytes learned that he had gone, five hundred of them set 
out in haste to overtake him and implore him to return, for he 
was greatly beloved; but the anxious throng reached San 
Diego (whither he had ridden to take ship for Mexico) only 
in time to receive his parting blessing as the vessel stood out 
to sea. Two bright Indian boys accompanied him, whom he 
entered in the College of the Propaganda at Rome, where 
they were the object of much interest. 

The incontinent flight was the impulse of an overwrought 
heart, and Peyri lived to repent the error of it. An Indian 
servant who went with him used to tell that, when they 
reached a hilltop at the edge of the valley, the Padre turned 
and in his grief kneeled on the ground and prayed God to 
guard and keep his Mission. I wish we might know the spot 
where that prayer was uttered — that ultimo suspiro, as 
touching in its way as King Boabdil's "last sigh" when he 
turned and, from the mountain overlooking the Vega of 
Granada, took a parting look at his lost Alhambra.^ 

At the time of De Mofras' visit to San Luis Rey in 1841, 

^ Alexander Forbes, an English merchant who met Peyri on the latter's way 
to Mexico, has left a pleasant sketch of him: "The excellent climate from which 
he had come, and his constant employment in the open air, made him look like 
a robust man of fifty years of age, although he was then sixty-seven; and al- 
though his general character and manners were necessarily very different from 
what could be expected from a mere cloistered monk, yet in his gray Franciscan 
habit, which he always wore, with his jolly figure, bald head and white locks, 
he looked the very beau ideal of a friar of the olden time." 

40 



there was in the Mission a picture representing Peyri sur- 
rounded by little Indian children, and the neophytes in their 
devotions would stop before it and make to it the same prayers 
as to the saint's image. Even then, after ten years of absence, 
his people had not given up hope that he would some day 
return to them. At the Mission's rancho of Las Flores, where 
the same traveler found a remnant of the San Luisenos living, 
an old Indian alcalde saluted him and said, — 

" Captain, they say you are from Spain. Did you see the 
kmg?" 

*'Yes," repHed De Mofras. 

"And Padre Antonio?" 

"No, but I know he is at Barcelona." 

"Don't they say he is dead?" put in another Indian. 

"Seiior," said the alcalde, turning to him reprovingly, 
"este Padre no muere!" (Sir, this Padre does not die!) 

"Ach, but he was a man, that Father Peyri," the big 
Brother at the Mission had said to me, "and he from a uni- 
versity, making adobes I" 



^§e CaCifotnia Qpabve^ 
II 

The Little Christians of San Apolinario 

A^NE of the most picturesque chapters in all the early his- 
^^ tory of what have come to be the United States is that 
which describes the overland expedition which on July 14, 
1769, left the newly occupied port of San Diego in search of 
its twin port of Monterey. I name them twin ports inasmuch 
as they were twin objectives of the expedition under Don 
Caspar de Portola for the exploration and conquest of the 
coimtry of which only the coast had then been seen by a few 
venturous navigators, and to which had been given the name 
of Alta California. 

The party consisted of Don Caspar himself, Captain Fer- 
nando Rivera y Moncada, Lieutenant Pedro Fages, an engi- 
neer, Miguel Costanso, some three score soldiers, muleteers, 
and Indians, and (for Church and State as comrades was 
ever the ideal of Spain) two of the newly arrived Fathers, 
Fray Juan Crespi and Fray Francisco Comez. It is to the 
honor of the Franciscan clergy, indeed, that, from Serra 
downward, always they were to the fore when exploration or 
hardship was on hand, whether by sea or land. Certainly, 
no reproach of shirkers can ever be leveled at them. In this 
case, too. Fray Juan plays other parts beside that of priest. 
Incidentally, he acts also as "navigator" to the party, manip- 
ulating compass and astrolabe as neatly as Senor Costanso, 
official ingeniero, himself; and it is in his excellent diary that 
we find the best record of this interesting page of history. 

To a man of Serra's energy and idealism it was a disap- 
pointment that in the two weeks that had passed since his 
arrival at San Diego no converts had been made. Instead, the 

42 



natives showed a thievish and troublesome spirit, which very- 
soon brought on an affray in which a muleteer was killed and 
some others of the Spaniards, including one of the Fathers, 
wounded. This gave, indeed, a dark beginning to the whole 
enterprise. However, faith was strong in the hearts of all; 
and the outcome having been, in a solemn service, committed 
afresh to the special care of St. Joseph, the advance to Mon- 
terey was confidently undertaken. Farewells, ceremonious, 
no doubt, but heartfelt, passed between those who remained 
to guard the germ of the San Diego settlement from perish- 
ing and those who went to found the new outpost at Mon- 
terey: and after a parting volley or two of musketry, with 
which the Spanish soldier must open and conclude every 
enterprise, the adventurers began their journey. 

We cannot follow them every step of the way, as Fray 
Juan's careful journal shows it: the ojitos, or "little eyes" 
(pools of fresh water), where they camped; the pozas, or wells, 
that refreshed their dusty noonday rests, the reals (camps) 
to which snakes, or fleas, or some such incidents of travel, 
gave a name, though generally it is by some more churchly 
phrase (Valley of the Triumph of the Most Holy Cross, for 
example) that the diarist marks the stages of the way; — 
sometimes, by the by, imiting the two methods in some such 
happy title as La Canada de Santa Pragedis de los Rosales, 
where the abundance of wild-rose bushes, "like those of 
Castile," was affectionately commemorated. 

The fourth night found them camped in the San Luis River 
Valley, and here for the first time the priests' hopes were 
raised that their spiritual work, as regards the natives, was 
about to begin. A large body of Indians, perhaps a hundred, 
visited the camp, and friendly gifts were exchanged, the 
Spaniards' ever reliable beads being repaid with a present of 
nets of native fabric. In the morning, when the Indians again 

43 



t^^e Cafifomta ^cibx^& 



came to the camp, an attempt was made by the Fathers to 
convey to them some first ideas of the new religion. But the 
time was not ripe; and in fact, with all regret for the friars' 
disappointment, it seems more to the credit of the natives' 
good sense than a matter of surprise that the mystified people 
should have refused to go through the unmeaning form of 
kissing the crucifijc — to them, no doubt, some kind of ''medi- 
cine" the purpose and effect of which were doubtful. 

But at a halt a few miles farther on, word was received from 
their advance party of two girl babies having been found in 
a native village near by, apparently dying. The good priests' 
humanity and zeal were both at once moved at the story. 
With a few soldiers for safety they proceeded to the place. 
In one of the rude dome-shaped huts of brush and grass that 
formed the village, the mother and child were found. Some 
fatal disease, perhaps pneumonia, a dangerous foe to the 
white, but certain doom to the ill-nourished Indian, had the 
little body in its unreleasing clutch, even while the poor 
woman clutched it to her own dusky, sorrowful breast. Now, 
Padres, you have our fullest sympathy, even though we may 
not share your fears for the child in the event that your 
kindly efforts fail with the distracted mother. "We begged 
the woman to allow us to wash the head of the child, so that, 
in case it should die, it would go to heaven," says Fray Juan. 
If, good Padres, you can by the mystery of baptism — mys- 
tery, indeed, to this dark aborigine — shed any least, faintest 
ray of hope or resignation into this dumb, aching heart, in 
God's name beg, then, as for your lives, and we shall rejoice 
as much as you, if you gain your desire. 

And so, happily, it proves. The dogma may well be un- 
comprehended, but the good humanity that shines in the 
Fathers' kindly urgency wins its way. The mother at last 
consents. Soldiers, priests, and wondering Indians press 

44 



about as water is poured and words are said. The name of 
Maria Magdalena — strange name, it seems, for Kttle child, 
but after all a touching one — is given the Indian baby-girl: 
and perhaps, perhaps, some gleam of the Light that shineth 
in darkness did, indeed, remain to befriend that dark and 
cheerless heart. 

The other child is \'isited then. She has been, perhaps, in- 
jured in the burning of the parents' miserable dwelling, and 
by possibility can hardly live, though, indeed, death will be 
the kindher outcome. Again the Fathers ply their unintel- 
ligible request, and agaui, to their joy, are successful. The 
child is baptized in the name of Margarita: and here, too, we 
will hope, some Presence of Love abode that lightened a Httle 
the somber shadow that chills in turn every scion of our 
mortal race alike. 

So it was that, somewhere contiguous to the valley of San 
Luis Rey, occurred the first Christian baptisms in California. 
*'If this be all the reward we Fathers are to enjoy for the long 
journey and hardships already endured and which we expect 
in the future, we are well satisfied." So writes honest Fray 
Juan in his diary for the day; and indeed, the expected trials 
were not to fail them.^ 

* Some miles to the north of the Mission of San Luis Rey there is a canon 
that is called by the name Los Cristianitos (the Little Christians). Fray 
Crespf notes that the name of Los Cristianos was given by the soldiers to the 
place where the children were baptized, though he called it San Apolinario. 
I learn from Father O'Sullivan, of San Juan Capistrano, that local tradition 
runs that the present Los Cristianitos Canon is the place where these first 
baptisms were made. It is interesting to see that, as seems plainly to be the 
case, the soldiers' name, slightly changed, has persisted to this day. 



SAN ANTONIO DE PALA 




'^-^n.- 



San Antonio de Pala and its Hanging Garden 

rV^ADRE Peyri's evangelical appetite was by no means 
Vp appeased by gathering in only those Gentiles who dwelt 
within easy reach of his Mission San Luis Rey. The mountain 
country twenty miles to the eastward was also well popu- 
lated, but the people were shy of coming to the Mission; so, 
in 1816, Peyri, Mahomet-wise, went to the mountain, found- 
ing in the beautiful little valley of Pala,^ along the upper 
waters of the San Luis Rey River, a Mission outpost which 
he dedicated to the Paduan St. Anthony. Here he stationed 
his companion friar, and within a couple of years, it is said, 
a thousand converts were added to the Mission roll. This 
estabh'shment was never officially a Mission, but simply an 
appanage of San Luis Rey — an asistencia, in Spanish par- 
lance. Nevertheless, it was in effect a Mission, with its church, 
its Padres' quarters, its corrals and storehouses and orchards; 
and in its tall campanario or belfry — still intact, built to 
itself apart from the church — it possesses a feature unique 
in Mission architecture, if not the world's. After seculariza- 
tion, Pala, of course, went the way of all, and its buildings fell 
into decay, although the occasional visits of a secular priest, 
and the continued interest of Indians inhabiting the hills 
roundabout, were instrumental in keeping part of them from 

* This would appear to be the Pale of a missionary reconnaissance of 1795, 
a site proposed at first for Mission San Luis Rey, but rejected because, for one 
thing, too far removed from the Camino Real. Father Doyle tells me "Pale" 
is the local Indian word for "water," and was the name of the aboriginal vil- 
lage in existence when the missionary establishment was founded. 

49 



^^t Cafifotnia ^Cibxt& 



entire obliteration. Then, in 1903, came a new lease of life 
through the transfer thither of about three hundred Indians 
evicted from their old-time home on Warner's Ranch; and 
with this accession of communicants to Pala the Catholic 
Church had a priest take up his permanent residence there. 
The land on all sides is a United States Indian Reservation; 
but the Church still owns in the midst an islanded acre or so 
which the Mission buildings and cemetery occupy. 

Pala is connected with the outside world by a daily auto- 
mobile stage, which runs to Oceanside in the morning, re- 
turning in the afternoon. On leaving San Luis Rey, I was 
lucky enough to catch it Pala-boimd, and the run up the val- 
ley was full of pleasure. It was a fine, autumnal day, and the 
road followed closely the course of the little river which was 
bordered with sycamores, cottonwoods, and willows, whose 
falling leaves shed a golden glory about our way. An hour 
and a half brought us to Pala. 

There I hardly know which caught my fancy more — the 
Mission or the Indian village nestling about it. The former 
consists of one low rambling building with whitewashed walls 
and red tile roof. In this, cheek by jowl, are the chapel, the 
priest's rooms, and the trader's tienda and storerooms. Ad- 
joining the church and neatly enclosed within a whitewashed 
adobe wall is the campo santo, in which stands the remarkable 
belfry of Padre Peyri, dominating the scene. The village is of 
Government manufacture and consists of rows of Eastern- 
made portable frame cottages of one story, each as like the 
other as machinery could make them, and each topped off 
with a "gingerbread" frill along the ridgepole. A garden 
plot surrounds each house, and here the aboriginal fancy is 
allowed to have its way. Sometimes it takes the form of 
planting to fruit and flowers, as taught by the Government 
farmer; at other times, the ground is neglected, occupied by 

50 



atib i^txx Q1li00ton0 

the usual assortment of dogs, chickens, and ramadas (brush 
shelters wherein to while away the sunny hours of a summer 
day) that one sees in the mountain rancherias of southern 
California. The broad streets, intersecting one another at 
right angles, had been set to pepper trees and eucalyptus, and 
were now more or less shaded, and roses and marigolds were 
here and there intruding upon the thoroughfare from the 
better kept house-lots. Ten years before, this village, called 
into being by Government fiat, to provide for three hundred 
homeless wards, must have been a hideous sight with its 
monotonous boxes of houses in straight rows, more like an 
army encampment than a collection of homes; but now 
Time's pitying hand has softened the hard contours, and 
shrubs and vines have broken up many a hard line. The 
stage-driver had told me that many of these Pala folk were 
mestizos, which may account for the prevalence of flowers in 
many of the gardens; for the aboriginal Calif ornian in his or 
her purity is not much of a flower-grower. Here and there, 
too, the Government cottage, warping to pieces, has given 
place to a California bungalow, such as Salvadora Roberts's, 
where I had a room to lodge. 

Taken altogether, Pala impressed me as having about it, 
in a way, more of the old-fashioned Franciscan atmosphere 
than other missionary establishments. To the Mission itself, 
looking in its tiles and whitewash every inch a Mission, there 
was this added element of a considerable contemporary In- 
dian life, the Mission's natural nurseling, clustered about the 
walls. From time to time through the year, it blossoms out in 
picturesque ^esto^, wherein the Padre has a part. Sometimes 
it is a blessing and a procession when some public work, like 
an irrigation ditch, is achieved; sometimes it is a church festi- 
val, like All Souls' Day, when the candle-lighting takes place 
in the cemetery; again it is some modified remnant of former 

51 



€^t Cafifomia ^abt^^ 



pagan days, as occurs in midsummer, when Indians gather 
from surroimding rancherias, and after mass in the chapel, the 
old Indian nature is given swing in dances, games, and songs, 
feasting and gossip, and a deal of gambling. 

It was neither Sunday nor feast day at the time of my visit 
to Pala; but the church door stood invitingly open, and from 
the dim interior issued the strains of a reed organ. Passing 
within the wicket and crossing a little garden enclosure, I 
entered. The music stopped, and a startled Indian girl passed 
like a shadow behind me and vanished in outer air before I 
could apologize for my intrusion. The interior was quite in 
keeping with the old-time look without. Here, in this chapel 
of the hills, lingered the real flavor of the ancient day. The 
roof of great, unhewn beams, brought from Palomar Moun- 
tain; the rough adobe walls with crude Indian decorations; the 
queer old wooden statues of saints about the unpretentious 
altar (one being of patron Anthony and so Aztec of feature 
that the tradition that it was carved by a Mexican Indian is 
probably true); the worn square ladrillos of the floor; — all 
this was very satisfying, the only note to jar on the anti- 
quarian soul being the little cottage organ. However, as it 
stood unobtrusively in a dark corner by the door, I forgave it. 
That the building is in the good repair it now is, we may thank 
the Landmarks Club of California which interested itself a 
decade or so ago in re-roofing it. Many of the tiles now cov- 
ering it are said to have once been upon Mission San Luis Rey, 
whence they were taken three quarters of a century ago in 
the general despoliation by neighboring rancheros, and the 
descendants of some of these donated or sold them for the 
restoring of Pala. The walls inside were until recently elabo- 
rately adorned with Indian paintings; but a few years ago a 
priest in charge, whose interest in aboriginal art was on a par 
with that of the old Spaniards who made bonfires of Aztec 

52 



anb t^txx (\Ut00ion0 

hieroglyphics, whitewashed most of them out of sight. Per- 
haps time will eventually bring them to light again, like writ- 
ing on a palimpsest. 

The bell tower, which stands just within the cemetery wall, 
rises upon a high base composed apparently of river boulders 
cemented together. At the rear, a well-worn flight of steps is 
built in, leading to the bells, which swing one above the other 
in separate embrasures and are suspended by their ancient 
rawhide thongs from worm-eaten beams set in the adobe. 
I amused myseK by deciphering the inscriptions cast into 
their iron rims. It was by no means an easy task, as many 
letters were indistinct, and the monkish abbreviations taxed 
my Latin. One bore a prayer: — 

gtus j)S gtus ptis gtus imMORT'^ 

MICERERE NOBIS. AN. DE 1816. I. R. 

(Holy Lord, Holy Most Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, 

Pity us. Year of 1816. Jesus Redemptor.) 

The other was inscribed in Spanish with these names: Our 
Seraphic Father Francis of Assisi. Saint Louis, King. Saint 
Clare. Saint Eulalia. Our Light. 

Companioning the cross that tops the belfry is a cactus 
plant of considerable size, flourishing in midair without other 
care than Nature bestows upon it. It is rooted in a crack of 
the adobe tower, close to the spot where the Christian symbol 
is fixed, and seemed, I thought, to tjrpify how Uttle of material 
substance is needed by the soul that dwells always at the foot 
of the cross. Genial Father Doyle, the resident priest, who 
has a keen interest in the history of his parish, has told me 
that this curious hanging garden of Pala is, quite likely, as old 
as the belfry itself; for the oldest living Indians remember it 
as always there. Tradition says that the original cross which 
Padre Peyri placed there was of green unhewn oak from the 

53 



€^t CaCifotma ^Cibxt$ 

mountain, and that the birds came and nested at its foot, 
using mud in their home-building. From a chance seed thus 
brought the plant sprang. Certain it is that the birds of to- 
day have a fondness for that airy perch to launch their joy- 
ous songs from, and the Father says that every year a nest 
is built in the branches. 

Altogether, I enjoyed Pala, and its chapel is a worshipful 
place, in its old-time simplicity. Besides, I liked the spirit of 
that open door. 



II 

The Exiles of Agua Caliente 

7(*'he wrongs of the Indian — it is an old song, and, perhaps, 
^^ to many persons a tiresome one. It is not unnatural 
that people should get out of patience with a troublesome 
problem, and the Indian problem has always been trouble- 
some. Many well-intentioned efforts have been made to 
grapple with it, and probably most people feel that when one 
has made well-intentioned efforts there is nothing more to be 
done. Yet I venture to say that few of us, when we read his- 
tory bearing upon the subject, can avoid an uncomfortable 
feeling that there is scored somewhere a long account, show- 
ing a huge balance in favor of the Indian against — well, the 
rest of us. 

The visitor to Pala is face to face with the vouchers of one 
of the last items on that account, though he may not see any 
evident tokens of the fact. Few people, probably, guess that 
items are still being entered, and it will surprise many of my 
readers to hear that as late as 1903 there took place in CaU- 
fornia a small coxmterpart of the incident that gave rise to 
the sad idyll of "Evangeline." I give the facts, saying noth- 
ing as to the points of the case that would interest lawyers; 
only venturing to ask the reader whether, in his opinion, when 
elementary himian rights conflict with the law, the rights or 
the law should prevail. 

There are in CaUfomia a considerable number of hot. 
springs. These, for their curative virtues and for other rea- 
sons, naturally were attractive to the aborigines, who placed 
their villages by preference at such spots. On what is now 
known as Warner's Ranch, far up in the mountains to the 

55 



€^t Cafifotnia ^Cibxt$ 



northeast of San Diego, there was such a village from the 
earUest times of record; how much longer no one can tell. 
Lying on the route by one of the few passes from the Colo- 
rado Desert to the coast, the region was well known to early 
explorers as a fine tract of pasture land, and even before the 
date of General Kearny's expedition it had been granted by 
the Mexican Government to "Don Juan" Warner, under the 
title of the Valle de San Jose. The Indians seem to have been 
always a peaceable and rather unusually intelligent tribe, 
living in a village of some thirty good adobe houses, and mak- 
ing an easy living in the primitive Indian way by hunting, 
farming after a fashion, and the harvesting of Nature's wild 
bounties. 

Through several changes of ownership the ranch passed 
many years ago into possession of a wealthy estate whose 
representatives were leaders in San Francisco society in ante- 
earthquake days. In the general progress of things the time 
came, about the beginning of this century, when the owners 
began to entertain other views for the property than that it 
should remain a mere cattle range. There would be no thought 
of subdividing for many years to come, but the hot springs 
were an asset of some immediate value, and by providing 
suitable buildings, and advertising, visitors would be at- 
tracted. But in order to this the Indians must go. The ranch 
was held, like scores of others throughout CaUfomia, under 
title of a grant from the Mexican Government, these grants 
being recognized by the United States when the province was 
taken over after the Mexican War. 

Notice was served upon the Indians to vacate their homes 
and leave. Nothing new, this, at all. It has been a common- 
place in the history of the California Indians that they should 
be allowed to stay nowhere on land that the white American 
wanted. They appealed to a few persons among the whites to 

56 



whom they were in the habit of looking for advice. These, 
some of them influential citizens of the southern part of the 
State, brought the matter up for decision by the courts, as 
to the rights of the Indians, in hope of protecting their help- 
less clients. Legal opinion was divided, as — somewhat 
oddly, it seems to outsiders — legal opinion ahnost always 
is. The case went from court to court, arousing a consider- 
able amount of attention in the process, until finally the Su- 
preme Court of the United States adjudged in favor of the 
owners of the property. 

Many people, most, I suppose, will say at this point, Well, 
that settles it. Your pardon, good reader, if I differ. It settles 
the law, but not the right. If you reply that since the law, in 
the Court of final decision, had ruled against the Indians* 
claim, nothing more could be done, I object that, the purpose 
of the law being to secure justice (in which prime human 
rights have always counted as of the essence), when the law 
is seen to fail it must be amended, or other means taken 
to obtain the end in view. Necessary work does not remain 
undone because a given machine is not fitted to do it: another 
is found, or made. But it is an old debate, amounting to 
whether the end, or the means made for the end, is finally to 
rule. 

Acting upon urgent representations made by the Indians' 
friends, Congress had set aside an ample sum for the purchase 
of other lands for the tribe that was to be expelled, and a com- 
mission appointed to select the land had decided upon a tract 
of some 3500 acres, with a good water supply, at Pala. It 
came now, then, to a case for ejectment and deportation. Was 
it to be peaceable, or by force? For the Indians were deter- 
mined. The fact (and, thanks to the efforts of their friends, 
it was a fact, for the first time in the history of such transac- 
tions) that the land upon which they were to be placed off- 

57 



^§e CaCifotttia ^abte« 



ered as good or a better living than the present locality, had 
no weight as against their attachment to their immemorial 
homes, the graves of their people. Moreover, some well- 
intentioned but most ill-advised people counseled the Indians 
to armed resistance — an absurdly hopeless suggestion, but 
one that foimd favor with a number of the leaders among the 
Indians. 

A Government Indian inspector arrived to take charge of 
the ejection, and a time was set for the operation, in May of 
1903. Teams and teamsters to the number of two score gath- 
ered at the fated village of Agua Caliente. Almost to the last 
moment it hung in the balance whether the Indians would 
or would not fight for their homes. It was known that they 
had some forty rifles, with ammunition, while the teamsters, 
supposed to be unarmed, mustered in fact many rifles and re- 
volvers. The inspector, warning his men against doing any- 
thing that would provoke attack, declared, from his knowl- 
edge of the feeling of the people, that the old women would 
probably fight with knives when it came to the point of being 
forced from their homes. Meeting after meeting was held by 
the Indians before deciding upon their course, and only at the 
last did they consent, on the earnest appeal of those whom they 
knew to be their well-wishers, to obey the Government and go. 

I quote from an article by Mr. Grant Wallace in the maga- 
zine Out West (published at Los Angeles) of July, 1903, the 
account of a few incidents of the eviction: — 

"Night after night, sounds of wailing came from the adobe 
homes of the Indians. When Tuesday (May 12) came, many 
of them went to the Httle adobe chapel to pray, and then 
gathered for the last time among the unpainted wooden 
crosses within the rude stockade of their ancient burying- 
ground, a pathetic and forlorn group, to wail out their grief 
over the graves of their fathers. Then hastily loading a little 

S8 



food and a few valuables into such light wagons and surreys 
as they owned, about twenty-five families drove away for Pala, 
ahead of the wagon train. The great four- and six-horse 
wagons were quickly loaded with the home-made furniture, 
bedding and clothing, spotlessly clean from recent washing 
in the boiling springs; stoves, ollas, stone mortars, win- 
dow sashes, boxes, baskets, bags of dried fruit and acorns, 
and coops of chickens and ducks. 

"While I helped Lay-Reader Ambrosio's mother to round 
up and encoop a wary brood of chickens, I observed the wife 
of her other son, Jesus, throwing an armful of books — 
spellers, arithmetics, poems — into the bonfire, along with 
bows and arrows, and superannuated aboriginal bric-a-brac. 
In reply to a surprised query, she explained that now they 
hated the white people and their reh'gion and their books. 
Dogged and dejected. Captain Cibimoat, with his wife 
Ramona, and little girl, was the last to go. While I helped 
him to hitch a bony mustang to his top-buggy, a tear or two 
coursed down his knife-scarred face; and as the teamsters 
tore down his little board cabin, wherein he had kept a res- 
taurant, he muttered, 'May they eat sand!' 

"At their first stop for dinner they lingered long on the 
last acre of Warner's Ranch, as though loath to go through 
the gates. At night, at Oak Grove, they drew the first rations 
ever issued to the Cupenos by the Government — some at 
first refusing to accept them, saying they were not objects of 
charity." (No, they were the objects of something quite 
different, the degradation attaching to which did not apply 
to them.) 

"Although devout church members — scarcely a name 
among them being unwashed by baptism — they refused the 
first Sunday to hold services in the restored Pala Mission, or 
anywhere else, asking surlily of the visiting priest, 'What 

59 



^^t CaCifotnia ^(xW& 



kind of god is this you ask us to worship, who deserts us when 
we need him most?' Instead, thirty of them joined some 
swart friends from Pauma in a ' sooish amokat' or rabbit hunt, 
killing their game with peeled clubs thrown unerringly while 
galloping at full speed. 

"Monday, however, the principal men, better pleased after 
inspection of the fertile and beautiful valley of Pala, had a 
flag-raising at the little school-house — the only building yet 
on the site of the projected village. An Indian girl played the 
organ, and a score of dusky children — who will compare 
favorably in intelligence with average white youngsters — 
joined in singing the praises of 'America — sweet land of 
liberty.' [Good Heavens!] School was opened, and later a 
policeman — young Antonio Chaves — was elected by pop- 
ular vote." 

So here at Pala you will find to-day the exiled Indians of 
Warner's Ranch, some three hundred all told, in a row of 
flimsy "portable-house" style cottages facing the main street. 
You may think there is nothing much amiss with them. No, 
there is not. As Indians go, I suppose they are as well off as, 
perhaps better than, the average. But speak to one of the 
older women: mention the name of Warner's Ranch or Agua 
Caliente, and you will learn that the Indian, perhaps even 
more than the white man, loves his own place, his native 
spot. The sentiment of "Land where my fathers died" 
moves his heart, reader, exactly as it moves your own; and 
the graves of his father, his mother, his children (and Indian 
graveyards are sadly full of those Httle mounds) are to him, 
exactly as to you, places to think of which is a heart-pang — 
and how much keener in absence! — and where imdying 
memories are stored. 

Might such a thing occur again? One would hope not, and 
think not. Yet I doubt whether the Biblical parable of the 

60 



one ewe lamb has lost all its application in these days; and 
when an Indian happens to possess something to which the 
white man's formula "There's money in it" applies, that 
Indian, if wise, will not comit it too safely his own. I was 
talking, not many months ago, with an Indian woman of the 
Pahn Springs village, on the Colorado Desert (where, as it 
happens, there are just such natural hot springs as those at 
Warner's). She was bom at Agua Caliente in the old days, 
and is married to a Palm Springs Indian. We had been talk- 
ing of sundry things, and Dolores was unusually chatty for 
an Indian. On my naming Agua Caliente she bent her head 
and became downcast. I did not then know of her connec- 
tion with the place, and asked, "Where you ever there, Do- 
lores?" "I was born there," she said: and after a moment, 
shaking her head, "My mother, my father, both died there, 
both buried there." I remarked that it was very bad to make 
the Indians leave Warner's. "Some day," said Dolores, 
"some day they make us leave here too." "Oh, no, I think 
not," I said. "You are safe at Palm Springs as long as ever 
you want to stay." She shook her head: "You wait, you see: 
some day they make us go." And to all argimients she only 
replied, "Yes, you see." 

It is not surprising that she should expect it, for, as I said, 
the story of Agua Caliente is the story of many another In- 
dian village in California; and the Indian, silent and patient, 
does not quickly forget. I had spoken confidently to Dolores: 
yet, I don't know: I should not care to feel that I held my own 
house on no greater certainty. But then, it is different: I am 
not an Indian. 



SAN JUAN CAPISTRANO 




San Juan Capistrano, the Melrose of the Missions 

"Up from the south slow filed a train, 
Priests and soldiers of old Spain, 
Who through the sunlit lomas wound 
With cross and lance, intent to found 
A Mission in that wild to John 
Soldier-saint of Capistran." 

5 ROM San Luis Rey to San Juan Capistrano, the next 
Mission northward, is some thirty miles — a beautiful 
drive if you can do the journey so; now beside the surfy sea, 
now over cattle-dotted mesas with glorious outlooks ocean- 
ward and moimtainward, and now threading flowery canons 
and canadas among treeless, dumpling foothills of the sort 
upon which the Spaniards fixed the name of loma. If your 
going be by rail, you alight at the station of Capistrano within 
a stone's throw of the Mission; and many visitors content 
themselves with a hurried stop between trains. Seeing it so 
in the noontide glare, they get little idea of the poetic beauty 
that enveils it when the shadows of evening creep over it, or 
in the dewy stillness of the early day, or, better yet, "in the 
pale moonlight," as at Melrose, to which its lovers delight to 
compare it; for it is of all the Franciscan remains the loveliest. 
Arrange, then, if you can, to pass at least a night at the quaint 
village, so populated of Spanish, French, and Basques, to say 
nothing of a sprinkling of other nationalities, that one of my 
fellow travelers told me he had once spent three months there 
and heard no word of EngHsh. It Hes on one of the main 
traveled highways between Los Angeles and San Diego, and 

65 



€i)^ Caftfotmta ^abte0 



since the advent of the automobile era, the Bonifaces of the 
place have noticeably improved the quality of their enter- 
tainment, so that you will now be very comfortably cared for 
at either of two inns. 

The founding of this Mission was an interrupted event. 
First came Padre Lasuen, erecting on October 30, 1775, a 
cross and celebrating mass al fresco in the presence of a few 
soldiers, servants, and muleteers; but hardly had a beginning 
at building been made when news was brought of that Indian 
uprising at the Mission of San Diego. The church bells were 
at once buried for safe-keeping, and the Padre and his escort 
hastened away to San Diego to assist their comrades there. 
A year later — on November i, 1776 — Serra, with two other 
missionaries and a file of soldiers, arrived, found the cross 
still standing, exhumed the bells, and, blessing the place 
afresh, gave the establishment its first real start on its evan- 
gelical course. The first Mission was not on the site of the 
present one; but, according to tradition, was some six miles 
to the eastward, in a locality marked on the maps as Mision 
Vieja.^ Just when the move was made to the present site 
appears to be uncertain; but early in 1797 work was begin- 
ning on the great stone church, whose noble ruin makes the 
Mission's especial charm for visitors to-day. 

Father St. John O'Sullivan, the cultured parish priest at 
present resident in the Mission, has written an excellent hand- 

^ This tradition seems to conflict with an entry in the journal of Vancouver, 
who sailed down the California coast in 1793, stopping at several of the Mis. 
sions. When abreast of San Juan Capistrano, he made this note: "Coasting 
about two miles from shore we suddenly noticed a Spanish establishment 
erected close to the waterside in a small sandy cove. . . . This Mission is very 
pleasantly situated in a grove of trees, having the ocean in front, and being 
bounded on its other sides by rugged, dreary mountains." This is very explicit, 
and seems to be the neighborhood of the old embarcadero, since immortalized 
by Dana, where ships, stopping for supplies or to trade with the Mission, cast 
anchor. Palou, in his Life of Serra (chap. XLin), gives the situation as half a 
league (ij miles) from the bay of San Juan Capistrano, beside a stream. 

66 




ONE OF THE BELLS, MISSION SAN JUAN CAPISTRANO 



book of the place which should be obtained by every visitor. 
In it he states that the stone used in building came from 
Mision Vieja, the large stones being conveyed in carretas or 
bull carts, and the smaller ones carried by the Indian neo- 
phytes. "Each one walked bearing a stone from the quarry 
in the hands or upon the head — the children with small ones, 
the grown-ups with larger ones, all doing their part according 
to their strength; so that during the work, the place resembled 
a great anthill with the busy workers going and coming — 
those passing to the east empty-handed, and those coming to 
the west bearing their burdens." While the manual labor was 
all done by Indians under the superintendence of the Fathers, 
there was a Mexican master mason, sent up from Culiacan, 
who had charge of the stone-cutting. The church was some- 
thing over nine years a-building. It was cruciform in out- 
line, and, when completed, was the most imposing of any in 
CaUfomia, with ornamentation on pilasters, doorways, cor- 
nices, and capitals that commands admiration even in its 
ruin. The massive roof was a series of vaulted arches. "Local 
tradition says" — I quote again from Father O'Sullivan — 
"that the bell tower in front was so high that it could be seen 
from a point ten miles away to the north . . . and that the 
sound of the bells was carried even farther; and that upon top 
of the tower perched a gilded cock, and that upon the dome 
over the transept rose a narrow spire of the large, square 
Mission tile, or ladrillosJ' 

The blessing of this edifice on September 7, 1806, with a 
two-day fiesta following, was a notable event. The ceremony 
was performed by Padre Presidente Tapis, assisted by the 
two friars from San Gabriel; and the vast crowd attending 
included the two resident missionaries of San Juan, visiting 
Padres from Santa Barbara, San Fernando, and San Luis 
Rey, the Governor Don Jose Joaquin de Arrillaga, miUtary 

67 



^§e Cafifoma ^({bxts 



lights from San Diego and Santa Barbara presidios with their 
soldiery, besides much gente de razon ^ from all the country 
round, throngs of neophytes from neighboring Missions, as 
well as all the San Juaneno neofitos, who themselves mus- 
tered a thousand or so. But alas for the shortness of human 
prevision! Six years and three months later came the tragedy 
of the earthquake, when the great edifice was shaken to a heap 
of ruins and twoscore of worshipers were crushed to death. 

Barring one short-lived attempt half a century ago, more 
destructive than constructive, the rebuilding of the church 
was never undertaken; and I, for one, shall be satisfied if it 
never shall be. It stands in its devastation a temple eloquent 
with the gospel of beauty, the stars its candles, the birds of 
the air its choristers, and heaven-sown wild flowers adorning 
its broken sanctuary. Meantime a room in the adjacent 
convento part is employed as a chapel for Christian worship, 
and there the visitor may see in present use old Spanish paint- 
ings, carved statues of wood, candlesticks, torches and crosses 
of silver, that once did service in the great church. One Sun- 
day morning during my stay, I found the villagers at their 
worship, and, sitting in a shadowy corner, was entranced by 
the solemn music of a beautiful Gregorian chant, sung by a 
fine baritone voice to the accompaniment of violoncello and 
violin played by two Frenchmen. The reading of the Gospel 
and the announcements were in Spanish. 

To the lover of artistic tidbits in architectural design the 
Mission buildings of San Juan Capistrano are a mine of de- 
light. At every turn some charming bit of handiwork catches 
the eye. There are handwrought shelves fixed, immovable, 
in the thick adobe walls; wall pockets scooped deep in the 
adobe; cave-fike closets and wood-boxes similarly inset be- 

1 "People of intelligence" — the term by which the whites were called, in 
contradistinction to the Indians. 

68 



side their fireplaces; hand-hewn ceiling beams, and snug 
joinery without nails; scrolls and designs of simple beauty- 
worked into doorposts and lintels; and delightful mouldings 
about the doorways — doorways so low that even a short 
man must humble himself to pass through. On all this work 
is the visible impress of the himian hand, having joy in the 
doing, appealing to our himianity and touching our hearts as 
machinery's impersonal output never does. So does the work 
of those vanished artsmen do missionary service to genera- 
tions that never knew them. 

While much of the original establishment is unfortunately 
gone beyond recognition, there are still many rooms in a fair 
state of preservation with their pristine ornamentation more 
or less intact. Father O'Sullivan is concerned that these 
remnants shall be kept, as far as may be, imdesecrated by the 
hand of the restorer; or, if restored, that the work shall be 
done strictly in the original manner, so that none of the old 
character shall be lost. Still presentable are the Padres' 
kitchen with its picturesque tile chimney, the pantry with 
its hand-hewn shelves, and the large room on the east side 
of the patio, used for divine worship before the great church 
was completed (as well as after the latter's destruction) and 
known as Serra's Church. This last owes its present satis- 
factory condition largely to the Landmarks Club which newly 
roofed it with old tile some years ago. 

I found entertainment browsing through the musty re- 
mains of the Padres' Ubrary where the Father was good 
enough to leave me one morning, amid vellum-bound tomes 
mostly in Latin and Spanish and printed in Mexico or Spain 
a century or two ago. Many bore evidence of having been 
rebound by some handy Brother who had lettered the titles 
on the new backs in neat, monkish script. Among them I 
came upon a many-volumed set of that famous eighteenth- 

69 



^^t CaCifovnia ^abvea 



century work, "The Universal Critical Theater, or Various 
Discourses on all KLinds of Matters for the Reproof of Com- 
mon Errors, written by the Very Illustrious Seiior Don Fray 
Benito Geronimo Feyjoo y Montenegro, General Master of 
the Order of Saint Benedict, of the Council of His Majesty, 
etc. Pamplona, Ano 1785" — a very lively, revolutionary 
sort of work, which, in its day, scandalized the bigwigs of 
Spanish erudition with the most radical notions about the 
doings of the sun, the status of woman, clerical behavior, the 
meaning of comets, and what-not — notions, however, which 
are commonplaces to-day. Then there were volumes upon 
volumes of Spanish translations of sermons by those renowned 
pulpit orators and propagators of the faith, my Lords Bishops 
of Meaux and Clermont, Jacques Benigne Bossuet and Jean 
Jacques Massillon. Did any latent spark of their fiery elo- 
quence carry to California, pass into the heart of some Padre 
of San Juan, and thence issue to kindle into flame the tow of 
neophyte souls? I wonder. The Bible in parallel columns of 
Latin and Castilian, a well-thumbed Apostolic Dictionary 
printed at Madrid in 1787, a volume concerning the Sacro- 
sanct and Ecumenical Council of Trent, the Moral Directory 
of one Padre Fr. Francisco Echarri and the Panegyrical Ser- 
mons of another, were additional sidelights on the literary 
diversions of the Padres of San Juan Capistrano. 

On the whole, I am not surprised that one of them decided 
to study mankind at first hand and write a book himself. He 
was Fray Geronimo Boscana, a kind-hearted, stoop-should- 
ered Mallorcan who was stationed at this Mission from 18 14 
to 1826. He was noted for his addiction to snuff and an un- 
accountable interest in Indians purely as Indians. He was 
never happier than when investigating their habits, charac- 
ter, and religion in paganism. The result of his years of study 
was embodied in a curious treatise entitled " Chinigchinich," 

70 



which Father O'Sullivan believes was written in the little 
room at the south end of the present chapel. The work was 
left in manuscript and eventually fell into the hands of Alfred 
Robinson, who thought enough of it to include a translation 
in his volume "Life in CaUfornia." One of the native customs 
that Fray Geronimo records has a touch of spiritual beauty 
worth repeating. The appearance of each new moon, he says, 
was celebrated by the Indians with sl fiesta, when the old men 
danced in a circle, singing the while a refrain to this efifect: 
"As the moon dies and comes to Ufe again, so we, having to 
die, shall live again." 

The same year that Boscana left San Juan, came Padre 
Jose Maria Zalvidea, lamenting, from San Gabriel. His serv- 
ice at San Juan was from 1826 to 1842, including the first 
years of secularization. He was a favorite with all, and his 
memory is still revered in the countryside aroimd the Mission. 
Bancroft says this Padre's belief in a personal devil was 
exceedingly vivid and he would at times be seen in hand-to- 
hand conflict with this — to others — invisible prince of the 
power of the air, kicking and sparring at him until the fiend 
was vanquished, when the victorious Padre would relapse 
into his customary sweetness of temper. Sometimes the Sa- 
tanic presence assxmied bodily shape. The story goes that 
one day, as Padre Jose walked in the country near the Mis- 
sion, intent upon his breviary, he attracted the notice of a 
lively bull — un toro muy bravo — who pricked up his ears 
at the sight. 

''Cuidado, Padre I" (Look out, Father!) shouted a vaquero 
near by who scented trouble. 

The Padre looked calmly up and went on with his walk and 
his devotions. 

"Whom God cares for, wJ/o," he observed, "needs himself 
have no care." / 

71 



Seiior Toro, feeling himself defied, trotted out before his 
herd, flourishing his tail and snorting ominously. The Padre 
started a h3ann. Toro, lowering his head and bellowing, 
pawed the earth so vigorously that the dust flew in the 
priest's face, and then charged. 

"Peace, malignant spirit, come, come," smiled the Padre, 
"wouldst thou throw dirt at me?" 

The bull, in astonishment, stopped before the unfrightened 
man of God, dropped his tail and slunk away, while the Padre 
continued his walk and his devotions. 

Two years after Padre Zalvidea's departure from San Juan 
Capistrano, William Heath Davis (a Gringo trader, like 
Robinson, who settled in California and wrote a book about 
it) found him at San Luis Rey, walking back and forth in the 
Mission corridors, breviary still in hand. The old priest was 
very imwilling to converse on worldly topics, to which, if 
broached, he would listen courteously and with averted face, 
making one stereotyped reply — " Vamos, si senor" — and 
go on with his walk. At other times he would be seen to 
touch his head on each side with his finger tips, throw his 
hands outward, snap his fingers and say, "Fete, Satands'" 
(Begone, Satan), as though casting out some improper 
thought. He was an old-fashioned Franciscan, believing in 
mortifying the flesh, wore a girdle with spikes on the inside, 
and frequently scourged himself with a whip. Perhaps the 
same disposition to penance was responsible for his table 
manners. It seems that at meals he mixed all courses on one 
plate — fish, meat, vegetables, sours, and sweets — and con- 
sumed the mass so, as though determined not to indulge his 
palate. Then, rising, he would himself clean his fork and 
horn spoon, while his servant washed his earthen dish, and 
at once march off to his room, carrying all three utensils 
with him. 

72 



Not the least interesting feature at San Juan Capistrano 
is the odd arrangement of the bells in the wall coimecting 
church and convento. These are bells of later date than those 
historic ones of 1775. Nor is this campanario the original 
belfry; for before the earthquake, the bells hung in the high 
tower of the church. As customary with the Mission bells, 
each is personified and bears its name cast in the metal. One 
states in mixed Spanish and Latin: "Ave Maria Purisima! 
Ruelas made me and I am called San Juan, 1796." Another 
is San Antonio; a third, San Rafael. The fourth was cast in 
honor of two of the San Juan missionaries. Padres Vicente 
Fuster and Juan Santiago, whose names it bears. That 
Padre Vicente, you remember, was the heroic comrade of the 
martyred Jayme on San Diego's noche triste. He minis- 
tered at San Juan from 1779 to 1800, and was buried there. 
To him doubtless is to be credited very largely the magnifi- 
cence of the new church. When the edifice was blessed in 
1806, his remains were removed to it with great ceremony 
and interred in the presbytery. 

Touching these bells Father O'Sullivan has found many a 
tradition current among the older Spanish folk of the neigh- 
borhood. One, which he narrates in his "Little Chapters 
about San Juan Capistrano," I find particularly to my liking. 
There was once, it seems, a gentle and devout Indian girl 
named Matilda, who delighted in caring for the sanctuary 
and keeping fresh flowers upon the altars. By and by she 
grew sick, and one morning, at daybreak, she died. "Im- 
mediately, in order to announce her departure, the four bells 
all began of their own accord, or rather by the hands of angels, 
to ring together — not merely the solemn tolling of the larger 
ones for an adult, nor the joyful jingling of the two smaller 
ones for a child, but a mingling of the two ways to proclaim 
both the years of her age and the innocence of her Ufe. Some 

73 



€^t California ^cibUB 



say it was not the sound of the Mission bells at all that was 
heard ringing down the little valley at dawn, but of the bells 
in heaven which rang out a welcome to her pure soul upon its 
entrance iato the company of the angels." 



n 

The Penance of Magdalena 

^^ LOWLY, very slowly, the greatest and most beautiful of 
^^ the Missions of Alta CaHfomia had risen among the 
swelling lomas of the valley of the San Juan. Brick by brick 
and stone by stone the simple Indian laborers, under the 
tutelage of the Fathers, had reared a structure which, in its 
way and place, might not unfitly be compared with those 
great cathedrals of Europe in which we see, as in a parable, 
how inward love and faith work out in material beauty. Huge 
timbers of pine and sycamore, hewn on Palomar, the Moun- 
tain of Doves, many miles away, had been hauled by oxen 
over trackless hill and valley, to form the joists and rafters 
that one sees to-day, after the lapse of more than a century, 
firm and serviceable, fastened with wooden spikes and stout 
rawhide lashings. 

In all these labors Teofilo had taken a principal part. As 
a child he had been christened with the name of Lucas, and 
had carried it through boyhood. But when about fourteen 
years of age, he had been transferred from the duties of a 
herder to learn the simple crafts taught in the workshops; 
and his industry and intelligence had so commended him to 
the overseers and Padre Josef that one day the latter, prais- 
ing him for some task especially well performed, had said, 
half in jest, "Hijo mio, we must christen you over again. You 
are excelentisimo, as San Lucas said of San Teofilo in the super- 
scription to his holy evangel; so I shall call you Teofilo, ex- 
celentisimo Teofilo, instead of Lucas; why not?" And Teofilo 
the boy became from that day, though Lucas he remained in 

75 



^^t Cafifotnia ^cibx^B 

the record of baptisms kept in the tall sheepskin volume in the 
Father's closet. 

So useful and diligent was the boy that the Father soon 
took him to be his own body servant, and many an hour did 
Teofilo pass handling with religious care the sacred vessels 
and vestments and books in the sacristy and in the Father's 
rooms. One day the Father noticed with displeasure that on 
the blank flyleaf of his best illuminated missal, lately sent 
to him by a friend in his old college at Cordoba, in Spain, 
there were some rough drawings in red and blue. Evidently 
the person who had drawn them had tried to obliterate his 
work, but had only partly succeeded. The Father could not 
help noticing, however, that, crude as were the formal floral 
designs and sacred emblems that had been copied by the cul- 
prit from the emblazoned letterings and chapter headings of 
the missal, the work showed undoubted taste and talent; and 
this gave him an idea. Why should he not adorn with fres- 
coes, in color, the cornices, and perhaps even the dome, of 
the new church? It would be a notable addition, and would 
give a finishing touch to the beauty of the building, if it could 
be done. And here, evidently, was a hand that might be trained 
to do it — the hand, probably, of his favorite, Teofilo, for he 
alone had access to the book-shelves in the Father's room. 

So when next he saw the boy he asked, "Teofilo, who has 
been drawing in my new missal?" The boy hung his head, 
and the Father, taking his silence as an admission of guilt, 
added, "That was wrong of you, Teofilo, and I must give you 
some penance to remind you not to do such mischief again. 
Do you know, boy, what that book is worth? Not less than 
twenty pesos, Teofilo, or even more. That is one year's wages 
of Agustin the mayordomo, so you can see such things must 
be left alone. But come to me this evening after the Doctrina, 
and I will set you your penance." 

76 



When the boy, with downcast look, came to him in his 
room that evening, the Father said to him, "What made you 
do it, Teofilo?" And the boy answered "I did not mean to 
do harm, Padre, but the pictures are so beautiful, and I tried 
to make some like them. Then I tried to rub them out, but 
they would not come off." The Father smiled indulgently. 
"No, my son," he said, "the wrong things we do, even in- 
nocently, do not come off. You must remember that in 
future. But they can be forgiven by the good God, Teofilo, 
and even so I forgive you for the book. And your penance 
shall be to come each evening at this time and learn to draw 
properly. What do you say? " 

"Oh, Padre!" cried the boy; and he took the Father's hand 
and put it, Indian fashion, to his forehead in token of grati- 
tude. 

Agustin the mayordomo was, next to the Father, the most 
important man about the Mission. He it was who, under the 
priest's supervision, had charge not only of the labors and 
general governance of the Indians, but also of the business 
affairs of the establishment, even to the care and sale of the 
cattle, hides, and tallow, which, produced in enormous quan- 
tity, were almost the only, but a quite considerable, source of 
revenue to all the California Missions. Agustin was a half- 
breed, or mestizo, the son of one of the Spanish soldiers who 
had come to Alta California with Serra and Portola. His 
mother was an Indian woman, to whom his father had been 
married by Father Serra himself. That was in 1776, the year 
of the establishment of the Mission, and Agustin, the oldest 
son of the marriage, had risen before the age of thirty-five to 
his important post, partly by natural ability, and partly by 
the fact of his mixed Spanish blood, which of itself gave him 
prestige and authority with the Indians. He had quarters 
adjoining those of the Father, on the main corridor of the cuadro. 

77 



€^t CaCifotmia ^cCbxts 



His family consisted of his wife, Juana, chief of the lav- 
anderas, or washwomen, and several children, the oldest of 
whom, Magdalena, was now growing into the fresh and early 
womanhood of these Southern races. Already she had lovers, 
who took such opportunities as the strict discipline of the 
Mission life allowed (and they were rare) to endeavor to 
awake a response in her heart. But she held herself aloof 
from all. Proud of the Spanish blood in her veins, though 
that blood was but that of a common soldier, she counted 
herself to be of the gente de razon, far above the level of the 
mere Indians, her mother's people. And, indeed, in her finer 
features, quick glance, and more spirited bearing, the differ- 
ence of strain was manifest: the Latin admixture, though only 
fractional, justified itself in evident supremacy over the 
aborigine. 

This proud element in Magdalena's nature had the un- 
fortunate effect of bringing her into conflict with the Father 
and the Church. Not that she would, out of mere perverse- 
ness, have refused obedience, but the Father, himself a 
Spaniard, viewed all who were not of the sangre pura as In- 
dians, all alike. This the girl felt and resented, and her resent- 
ment, though unexpressed, showed in numberless ways; while 
the Father, on his part, viewed her only as an obstinate In- 
dian child, naturally averse to good influences. 

It chanced one day that Agustm, overlooking the making 
of adobe bricks at the clay pits a mile from the Mission, 
needed to send a message to the Father on some point con- 
cerning the work; and, Magdalena having been sent to carry 
their midday meal to the brick-makers, he entrusted her with 
the errand. Failing to find the Father in his private room, 
she went to the next door of the corridor. It was half open, 
and she glanced in. The Father was not there, but she saw, 
bending over a table set against the window, a young man. 

78 



His back was turned to her, and he was so intent upon his 
occupation that he had not heard her step. She should have 
turned and gone, for the rules were strict, and forbade con- 
versation between the girls and young men of the Mission: 
but her curiosity was keen to know what the Indian boy (as 
she knew he must be) was doing in the Father's quarters, and 
what it could be that kept him so absorbed. Moreover, a 
spirit of defiance was in her. If the Father found her loiter- 
ing there he would reprimand her. Well, she would break the 
rules: she was no Indian; and if he caught her there she would 
tell him so. Yes, she would see what the young man was doing; 
she wanted to know, and she would know. Quietly she stole 
into the room and edged round to one side so that she could 
see partly across the table. The young man was painting, in 
wonderful colors, on a sheet of parchment, painting wonderful 
things — beasts, and birds, and flowers, and even angels, a 
wonder of wonders to the simple girl. 

At some involuntary sound that she made, the young man 
— it was Teofilo — turned and saw her. Her eyes were fijced 
upon him, wide with wonder, and her hands half raised in 
childlike rapture, while her slender figure, so different from 
the heavier forms of the Indian girls, gave her, to his eyes, the 
look and bearing of one of the very angels he had been copy- 
ing. It was a marvel on his side, too; and for a few moments 
the two regarded each other, while love (that is born so often 
of sudden wonder in innocent hearts) awoke and stirred in 
both their breasts. They had often met before, but it had 
been casually, and the hour had not been ripe. Now he saw 
her and loved her; she saw him, an Indian, indeed, but trans- 
figured, for he was an Indian who worked wonders. And the 
Spaniard in her gave way, that moment, to the Indian, and 
she loved an Indian, as her father had done. 

He was the first to recover his self-possession. "The Father 

79 



€^$e CaCifotnia ^obxtB 



is not here," he said. "He will be back soon, for he set me my 
task until he should return, and I have almost done it." "Is 
that your task? " she asked. "How beautiful! How wonder- 
ful!" And she stepped nearer the table. " Show me, how do 
you make them? I never thought that Indians could make 
such things. I have heard my father say that holy men in 
Spain could make angels, but you are an Indian: how can 
you do it?" "I caimot tell you," he said slowly: then — 
"Yes, I will tell you," and a flush came on his dark face, and 
a light into his eyes, as he looked at her. " I do not make them, 
these angels; they come to me because the Father has taught 
me to love them. He says the angels come to those who love 
them, and any one can love them. And when I saw you," he 
went on, his eyes upon her eager face, "I thought you were 
the angel I was painting, for you are like an angel, too; and 
now I shall always love you, and it will be easy to paint. 
Listen! the Father is coming. You must go quickly, but now 
I have seen you I must see you again. You are Magdalena, 
Agustin's daughter. I shall find you to-morrow when I take 
the orders for the work to your father." 

Magdalena slipped away, and thus was begun the short but 
happy love of Teofilo and Magdalena — short, like the his- 
tory of the beautiful Mission itself; happy, as all love is happy, 
let its end be what it may. Many a time they met in secret, 
for sweet interviews or even a hurried word or glance; but 
love grows best in the shade. And meanwhile, the great 
church had been growing too, and now it was Teofilo's proud 
task to paint the frescoes on the walls and dome, as the Father 
had hoped. Simple designs they were to be at first, — floral 
emblems and the symbols used for ages by the Church, — 
but later Teofilo was to essay much more ambitious things, 
perhaps even the archangels, and San Juan, the soldier-saint, 
himself. 

80 



It was the winter of 1812, and Teofilo and Magdalena 
had loved each other for over a year, when Teofilo one day 
spoke to the Father of Magdalena, and said that he wished to 
marry her. For months Magdalena had tried to be dutiful 
and to engage the Father's interest, on her side, in their 
favor, in preparation for Teofilo's broaching of the subject to 
him. But she felt always that he remembered her old hostil- 
ity, and that he still considered her a mere disaffected Indian 
of his flock. They had often talked of this, but Teofilo, who 
loved the Father for the special kindness he had always shown 
him, believed that he would agree to the marriage. Why 
should he not? he said. It would make no difference to him, 
and he, Teofilo, would work better than ever, to show his 
gratitude. 

When at last he spoke of the matter, the Father peremp- 
torily denied his request. Agustin's daughter was an obsti- 
nate, perverse child, and would only lead Teofilo away too. 
He would give thought to the matter, and would see what 
girl there was suitable for him, and then, if he wished to 
marry, well and good. He would give them two rooms in the 
corridor, near his own, and would allow him pay as his body 
servant and for his work, and perhaps other privileges as 
well. And that was all; for Teofilo knew that he would not 
be moved from his decision. Good man as the Father was, he 
had the Spaniard's failing in dealing with a subject race — 
a certain hardness arising from a position of authority not 
allied with responsibility — except to God, and that, indeed, 
the Father felt, but he conceived that his duty to his In- 
dians, apart from his spiritual ministrations, was entirely 
comprised in the teaching, feeding, and just governing of 
them. 

When Teofilo told Magdalena, at their next meeting, what 
the Father had said, the girl was enraged. *'So he thinks I 

81 



€^^ Cafifotrnia,^abtr^0 



am not good enough for you!" she cried: "And I have done 
everything to please him. But he is only a priest, and has no 
heart. Ah! those Spaniards, I hate them!" And then, with 
a woman's illogical turn — "Well, he shall see that I am 
Spanish too. We will go away to the Mission at San Diego, 
Teofilo. My father's brother is there, and I have heard my 
father say that he has influence with the priest. He will marry 
us, and you can work there as well as here." 

But Teofilo was in doubt. His love for Magdalena and his 
love and reverence for the Father contended. He was a sim- 
ple, guileless soul, and the thought of ingratitude to his bene- 
factor was a misery to him. Some other way must be found: 
the saints would help them ; he would pray to San Lucas, who, 
the Father had told him, was his patron, for he had been bom 
on his day and christened by his name: and Magdalena must 
pray, too. 

Magdalena, however, took up now an attitude of open 
rebellion, and absented herself entirely from the services of 
the Church. This was another trouble to Teofilo, and daily 
over his work he prayed to San Lucas, and pondered what was 
best to do. But days and weeks went on, and his inward dis- 
quiet began to take effect in his appearance and behavior. 
The Father, busy with the multitudinous affairs of the Mis- 
sion, had entirely forgotten the matter of Teofilo's request: 
but one day he chanced to notice his favorite's listless air, and 
it recalled the affair to his mind. A day or two afterwards 
he said to Teofilo, as the latter was with him in the sacristy, 
"Teofilo, you are dull and not yourself. You were right, it is 
time you were married, and I have the very one for you. It is 
Ana, the daughter of Manuel, who works in the smith's shop. 
She is a good girl. I will speak of it to her father." 

"Padre," said Teofilo, "I cannot marry Ana, nor any one 
else but Magdalena, for I love her. Oh, Padre," — and he 

82 



dropped on his knees before the priest, — "let us be married. 
You do not know, she has tried hard to be good, and to please 
you. And I will work for you all my life. I have been pray- 
ing to San Lucas ever since I told you, but he has not done 
anything." 

The priest was moved by the earnestness of the boy — for 
boy he had always considered him, and indeed he was little 
more in age. "Well, hijo mio" he said, "I do not know about 
that. The saints always hear us, as I have told you, and per- 
haps — who knows? — San Lucas may do something yet. 
Or, perhaps," he added with a smile, "it is because we changed 
your name, and he does not look on you as his son. Well, that 
was my fault. But you say that Magdalena has tried to 
please me? Good, then we will see. I will set her a penance, 
for she has not behaved well; then I shall see if she wishes to 
please me. To-morrow will be a day of observance, and there 
will be early mass in the church. Tell Magdalena, Teofilo, 
that she must come to mass and carry a penitent's candle. 
Let her be in the front row of the women. If I see her there 
I shall know she is obedient, and perhaps, yes, perhaps, — 
well, we will see about the rest." 

"Oh, Padre," Teofilo exclaimed, "you are my padre, in- 
deed;" and he put the priest's hand to his forehead. " I know 
she will come, and I know she wishes to please you. And, 
Padre," he said, "I have made a picture of the angels of La 
Navidad. I did it to please you" (he was about to add, "and 
Magdalena," but prudence stopped him in time). "I thought 
— I thought—" 

"Well, what did you think, hijo mio?" asked the priest. 

"I thought. Padre, that if you liked it, and said it was done 
well, it would be fine on the high roof. Padre, the angels, four 
of them, in the middle of the roof: like this. Padre, see!" And 
he raised his hands in the attitude in which he had seen Mag- 

83 



Z^t Cafifovnia ^(ibxt^ 



dalena when she met him in the Father's room. "I could do 
it, Padre, if you like it." 

"Angels, Teofilo!" said the Father. "Hm! I do not know. 
It is hard to paint the holy angels, and diligent as you have 
been, I hardly think you are an Angelico. But go and bring 
what you have done, and I will see. Indeed, it is just what I 
would have, but it must be well done, or it will spoil the rest." 

The boy ran off, and returned quickly with a large sheepskin 
on which he had drawn in colors a really fine design: four 
angels in attitudes of worship, with uplifted hands, and eyes 
that expressed, crudely yet well, the wonder that the Holy 
Ones might well feel at the Miracle of the Manger. 

"Ah, and did you really draw this?" asked the priest. "It 
is excellent, Teofilo; we must make a painter of you in 
earnest; perhaps we might even send you to Mexico to be 
taught by a good artist. There is one of the Brothers at the 
College of San Fernando who would train you well. I think 
this is what San Lucas has been doing for you, after all. But 
how did you do it, Teofilo? What did you draw from?" 

"Padre," said Teofilo tremblingly, "I will tell you, but do 
not be angry. It was Magdalena. I saw her once, at first, and 
she was like that, yes, exactly Hke that, with her hands up, 
so. She was like one of the angels in your new missal, and I 
remembered, and drew it many times over, and — do you 
really think it will do for the church, Padre?" he finished 
eagerly, his face aflush with excitement. 

"Yes, it is certainly good enough, Teofilo," said the Father. 
"We will have gold round the heads and golden stars on the 
robes, and San Juan's church shall be the finest in California. 
Though how it comes that the girl Magdalena can have been 
your model passes my understanding. Indeed, I think it is 
the good San Lucas, or San Juan himself, who has helped you. 
Well, you deserve praise, Teofilo, and perhaps some reward. 

84 



But go now, and tell Magdalena to come to first mass to-mor- 
row, as I said. You may take a candle from the sacristy and 
give it to her." 

That evening Teofilo told Magdalena all that had hap- 
pened. But her Spanish blood was in hot rebellion, and in 
spite of her love and Teofilo's entreaties, she would not give 
in. To carry a candle, as if she were one of the Indian girls, 
caught in disgrace! No, it was too much. Why, the whole 
pueblo would see her, and laugh (which, indeed, was true for 
she had held herself above the girls of the Mission, and was 
not loved by them). In vain Teofilo told her of the Father's 
words about sending him to Mexico to become a real painter. 
No, it would be a victory for the Father if she gave in, and he 
should see that she was Spanish as well as he. And contemp- 
tuously she tossed the candle aside into the chia bushes in the 
courtyard, where they talked in the shadow of the arches. 

It was with a heavy heart that Teofilo left her, yet with a 
faint hope that she might repent and come to mass in the 
morning. It was a dull, oppressive night, such as comes rarely 
in California, even in the summer heats. Teofilo slept but 
little, and twice during the night he got up from his bench 
bed and prayed to San Lucas, for this seemed to be the final 
chance for his and Magdalena's happiness, and after his 
interview with the Father all had seemed so bright that it 
was hard now to give up hope. Magdalena, on her part, slept 
not at all, but she did not pray. Instead, she lay with wide- 
open eyes in the darkness of her little windowless room, look- 
ing up at the low ceiling and fighting over in her heart the old 
battle of love and pride. One might say that love stood for 
the Indian and pride for the Spaniard in her, and that it was 
an incident in the old feud that began with Cortes and Ma- 
linche. And then she thought of what Teofilo had told her, 
how he had told the Father about painting the angels for the 

8S 



t^^t Cafifotnia ^cibxt& 



church because he had seen her standing with upraised hands, 
like an angel, that day. Poor Teofilo! how he loved her! and 
how she loved him, too! It was hard, very hard, that there 
was so much trouble. How happy they might be ! And he was 
so clever, and might be a real painter, not working in the 
fields or at the workshops, but only painting angels and beau- 
tiful things. And she was the cause, in a way, of his being so 
clever: she was proud of that, and the thought made her glow, 
simple Indian girl as she was, with a woman's sweetest thrill 
— he was clever because of her! Yet now she must spoil it 
all, and all for the Father's hardness. 

But then, must she? — for she knew that it lay with her, 
after all. She could make all so happy — why not? Ah, but 
the humiliation! No, she could not. But could she not? The 
humiliation would soon be over, and the prize was so great. 
They might be married, and even at once. Yes and no, yes 
and no — so the fight went on, as the hours dragged past and 
the heavy air pressed upon her restless nerves and forbade 
sleep. 

It would soon be dawn, and now she must decide. Then 
the thought came to her, should she pray to San Lucas, as 
Teofilo had been doing? Perhaps after all he would help them. 
She got up, and creeping quietly into the adjoining room, 
where her father and mother were asleep, she knelt at the 
Httle crucifix that hung on the wall, and tried to pray. But 
no words would come, and she was about to rise and go back 
to her bed when it seemed as if words were whispered in her 
ear, echoes carried in the brain from something she had once 
heard, no doubt, in the church — "... levanto a los humildes 
. . . raised up the humble ..." She had noticed the words, 
because they were so averse to her ways of thought: the hum- 
ble, why, that was like the Indians whom she had always de- 
spised. But, after all, perhaps that was San Lucas's answer; 

86 



anb t^xx (Ulimon5 



for she saw that it would settle all her trouble. Well, be it so: 
she would be humble, if San Lucas told her; and she would 
obey the Father, and then, at last, all would be well. 

She rose, and, remembering the hateful candle, went into 
the quadrangle and searched for it. There it lay among the 
chias, and she picked it up and carried it to her room. Light 
was dawning in the east, and she did not He down again, but 
stood in her door, making up her mind to the humiliation she 
was to undergo for the sake of Teofilo and their love. She did 
not waver now; indeed, in her young, strong passion she 
gloried in the sacrifice she would make for love's sake. She 
dressed herself with care. They ate no meal that day before 
mass, which was to be at six in the morning. If only, she 
thought, she could tell Teofilo that she had resolved to do the 
penance, it would make it so much easier; but there would 
be no way of seeing him until they were at the service, and 
then the men would be on one side and the women on the 
other; so he would not know until he saw her, and perhaps he 
would not look, for she had said she would not go. Then a 
thought came to her with delicious joy: she would make up 
to him, and punish herself, for having refused, by waiting till 
the people were all in the church, and then going in alone, so 
that everybody would see her, and Teofilo would see what she 
could do for him. 

Solemnly the great bell sounded out the summons to prayer. 
It was a special day, the Feast of the Immaculate Concep- 
tion, and all were expected to come to mass, old and young. 
The morning was heavy and airless, and the people, rising 
from sleepless or restless beds, moved languidly and in hardly 
broken silence toward the church, and, entering, ranged them- 
selves, men and women separately, on either side of the build- 
ing, facing the altar. Teofilo was in his usual place, near the 
front, and on the margin of the open aisle that divided the 

87 



^^t CaCifomta ^aWjfis 



sexes. All had gathered before the bell ceased to sound, but 
Magdalena was not there. With a sinking heart Teofilo had 
watched, hoping against hope that she would repent and come. 
He saw Agustin and Juana come in, and Agustin go to the 
place near the altar which he held as mayordomo, while Juana 
merged in the crowd of undistinguished Indian women. So 
Magdalena was obstinate, and the prospect of happiness 
that had looked so bright yesterday was all over and spoiled. 
But he must not blame her: she was not just an Indian, like 
him. And with a sigh he ceased to watch the doorway and 
turned to face the altar. 

The Father entered, and bent the knee before the altar in 
view of the congregation, who also had knelt on his appearing. 
The church was in darkness but for the illumination of candles 
about the altar and a gray and sickly dayhght that came in 
at the open door. As the Father turned to the people there 
was a stir among the women who had taken places near the 
entrance, and a figure appeared, carrying a lighted candle. 
It was Magdalena. She walked steadily up the passageway 
between the men and the women toward the priest, who stood 
facing her. A black shawl was thrown over her head, and her 
face, pale with sleeplessness and trouble, and lighted by the 
candle she carried, seemed to glow against its dark background 
as if illimiinated from within. Teofilo had turned at the sound 
of her entrance, and watched her as if fascinated during her 
passage up the aisle. She did not see him, for her eyes were 
on the ground: but she knew his place, for he had often told 
her; and as she came near to where he was kneeling she 
turned a little toward him, and murmured, so that only he 
should understand, "It is for thee, Teofilo." 

As she came close to the altar step, the Father's eyes rested 
on her with a glance that seemed to say, "It is well, my 
daughter." Then he began the service, while Magdalena 

88 



knelt in the front row of the women. There was an unusual 
stillness among the people, for the incident of Magdalena's 
penance had not been known, and had taken all but Teofilo 
and the Father by surprise; while the sultry half darkness and 
the stagnant air seemed to add to the feeling of awe. So the 
service proceeded. 

Suddenly, without warning, at the offertory, destruction 
broke. There came a shock; a pause of terror; another shock, 
that made the solid walls rock to and fro; a terrible cry, "El 
temblor!''^ and in panic the people rose from their knees and 
rushed toward the door. A third shock came, heavier than 
the other two; and cornices and masses of plaster began to 
fall. 

At the first cry of the frightened people Teofilo had risen 
to his feet. He looked to where Magdalena had been kneeling, 
and saw her standing, still holding her penitent's candle alight 
in her hand. As the people rushed toward the door both he 
and Magdalena were almost carried away by the panic- 
stricken throng; but he made his way to her, and they two 
were for a few moments alone, but for the priest, near the 
altar. When the third shock came he threw his arms about 
her. She seemed to have no fear, nor had he. The spirits of 
both had been under strain, and one thing only had been in 
their thoughts for hours before, so that they were m great 
degree oblivious to the general terror. As Teofilo put his arms 
about her, a bright smile came on her white face, and she 
said, pointing to the candle, "It was hard, but I prayed to San 
Lucas, and he told me to do it, and now we can be married." 
The shock continued, and became more violent. Pointing to 
the candle she said again, "I did it for thee, Teofilo w/o." 
As she spoke, there came a terrifjdng sound from above: the 
great stone dome above them parted, and looking up they saw 
for a moment the cahn face of the sky through a jagged rent 

89 



in the roof; then the ponderous structure crashed down in 
ruin upon them and the huddled crowd of Indians that still 
struggled for escape. 

They were found the next day, their bodies crushed to- 
gether. In her hand was still the penitent's candle. 

In one grave the Father, who escaped the death that fell 
that day upon twoscore of his flock, buried Teofilo and Mag- 
dalena; for, said he, making over them the Holy Sign, they 
were married, indeed, though in death. Still may be seen on 
the shattered walls and roof of the Mission church some faded, 
simple frescoings, the unfinished task and the memorial of 
Teofilo, the painter-neophyte of San Juan Capistrano. 



SAN GABRIEL ARCANGEL 




-i&^^^tf 



Mission San Gabriel Arcangel, and the Miracle 
OF THE Virgin's Banner 

^t^HERE is an electric line that connects the little town of 
^^ San Gabriel with Los Angeles, and from the heart of 
the southern California metropolis to the old Mission, which 
long mothered her, is a matter of ten miles or three quarters 
of an hour. If you enjoy your sight-seeing on the "personally 
conducted" plan, you may visit the Mission in a special car 
with half a hundred other "trippers"; but if you prefer to 
manage your fortunes yourself, there is a public car, every 
half-hour or so, that lets you off under the Mission walls. 

Until recently San Gabriel was one of the quaintest villages 
in the State, with a certain old-time Spanish atmosphere that 
gave it distinction. Antedating Los Angeles by five or six 
years, it is after San Diego the oldest town in southern Cali- 
fornia. Unfortunately the sin by which the angels fell seized 
upon it a year or two ago, and the local governors, in their 
ambition to "improve," wiped out of existence many of the 
picturesque old adobes that lined the main street approaching 
the Mission, and with them went much of the town's character 
as a Spanish-California pueblo. Yet not all. There is still the 
charm that goes with an abounding Mexican population, — 
blazing gardens of marigolds and hollyhocks, oleanders and 
pomegranates, gnarled old olives of missionary planting, the 
strumming of guitars, and the murmur of Spanish gossip 
from open door or from behind latticed windows where roses 
dangle. There are little Mexican restaurants where you may 

93 



^$e CaCifotnta ^cC^xt& 



buy tamales and coffee and have them served in the shade of 
a tree, and one whose spacious patio is completely roofed 
with the branches of a mammoth grapevine. If you are in 
search of a tailor, is there not versatile Magdaleno Moreno 
who notifies the world in two languages that he "fixes men's 
suits that don't fit," as well as "all kinds of men's and ladies' 
umbrellas at reasonable prices"? At the rehote court I sat 
entranced for an hour. There the youth of San Gabriel as- 
semble in their hours of leisure to play a sort of hand-ball at 
so much a game; but it must be cash. One learns that from 
a legend replete with Spanish wit, painted on the wall: Ahora 
no sefia: manana si (No trust now: to-morrow, yes). 

As for the Mission whose bells call regularly from their 
quaint belfry in the wall, it is a wide-awake establishment, 
ministering to a large parish, mostly Mexican, I fancy, and 
since 1908 in charge of priests of a Spanish order glowingly 
entitled "Los Misioneros Hijos del Inmaculado Corazon de 
Maria" ("The Missionary Sons of Mary's Immaculate 
Heart"). Their views about money are by no means Fran- 
ciscan; for they briskly levy a toll of twenty-five cents upon 
each visitor who seeks admittance at their door. A salesroom, 
also, is maintained for the vending of souvenirs, and intensi- 
fies a certain air of commerciaHsm that haunts the premises, 
and excuses one for thinking of the money-changers in the 
Temple. Nevertheless, the place will not maintain itself, I 
suppose, and when you have no longer a thousand Indians to 
do your work for you for their keep, the most Ukely alterna- 
tive is the tourist's pocket. And they give you a fair quid pro 
quo. There is an ample array of Mission relics on view, In- 
dian mortars and metates, old Spanish books and music, 
priests' vestments and saints' statues and pictures. One of 
these pictures is responsible for a tradition once current in the 
neighborhood that the Mission possessed a Murillo. It does 

94 



anb t^dx (yTlt00iott0 

look like one, but only because the copyist did his work well. 
The old baptistry, a cell-like offset in the north wall, is very 
interesting, graced with an ancient font of beaten copper, at 
whose brink, the records testify, over seven thousand Indian 
heads have received the waters of baptism. Then the dusky 
coro, or choir loft, above the main entrance, and attainable 
only by an outside stone stairway worn deep by generations 
of ascending and descending feet, is haunted, I am sure, by 
romances enough to make a story-writer's fame, could he but 
trap them. In a niche of the sacristy wall stands a copper 
samovar that caught my eye, though the guide had nothing 
to say about it. It seemed to me an outward and visible sign 
of the vanished days when the Russians had a fur station on 
the coast above San Francisco, and traded with the Missions 
for much of their food and drink. 

The church is the only remaining structure of the once ex- 
tensive Mission buildings, and was completed about the 
year 1800. The original establishment was not on the present 
site, but five miles south, near the west bank of what is now 
called the Rio Hondo, a branch of the San Gabriel River 
(which, by the way, the Spaniards first named, in honor of 
another archangel, El Rio de San Miguel).^ Something nearly 
like a miracle attended the founding, if we are to fall in with 
Padre Palou's pious enthusiasm. It was in September, 1771, 
and the founding party were scouting for a location. The 
unusual sight of friars, soldiers, and mules circulating about 
drew to the scene a great crowd of disapproving Gentile In- 
dians. Yelling and brandishing their weapons, they at- 
tempted to drive the Spaniards off. The Fathers, fearing a 

* The first intention had been to establish the Mission near the Santa Ana 
River, then known as El Rio Jesus de los Temblores, because of numerous 
earthquake shocks experienced by Portola's expedition at the time of their 
passage; whence the name San Gabriel de los Temblores, by which the Mis- 
sion sometimes went. 

95 



€^t Cafifotnia ^abr^if 



battle, bethought them of the time-honored shield of defense 
among the Catholic pioneers, the picture of the Virgin; and, 
ransacking their baggage, they quickly got out a canvas on 
which was painted an image of Our Lady of Sorrows. No 
sooner was this held up to the view of the excited throng than 
they all, subdued by the vision, writes Palou, "threw down 
their bows and arrows and came running hastily forward. 
The two captains cast at the feet of the Sovereign Queen the 
beads and trmkets which they wore about their necks, as a 
sign of their greatest respect and also to indicate that they 
wished to make peace with our company. They invited all 
the people from the surrounding villages, who, in great num- 
bers, men, women, and children, kept coming to see the Most 
Holy Virgin, bringing with them loads of various grains which 
they left at the feet of Our Lady Most Holy, supposing she 
needed food the same as the rest." 

The site at the river was abandoned as unsuitable after 
four years, and about 1775 the present location was pitched 
upon, amid a forest growth so abundant at that time where 
now is open country that thousands of live-oaks, sycamores 
and elder-trees were felled to give the Mission necessary el- 
bow-room and outlook. Here, early in January of 1776, ar- 
rived Colonel Juan Bautista Anza, convoying two hundred 
colonists overland from Mexico to make a beginning of the 
pueblo of San Francisco. Padre Pedro Font, chaplain of the 
expedition,^ has given us a picture of San Gabriel in those 
wild days. There were fat milch cows and cheese and butter; 
a litter of pigs and a small flock of sheep. He lingers lovingly 

^ The first overland trip to California ever accomplished by colonists. Two 
years before, Anza, with a few companions from Mexico, blazed the way for 
them, arriving at La Mision Vieja, by the river, at svmset, March 22, 1774, 
where he was received with ringing of bells and the singing of Te Deums, as 
befitted one who had opened a way by land between the wilderness of Cali- 
fornia and civilization. 

96 



over the sheep. "On our coming," he says, "they killed three 
or four muttons that they had, whose meat was particularly 
good, and I do not remind myself of having eaten mutton 
more fat and beautiful; and they have also some chickens." 
As for the products of the ground, the Mission was hardly 
warm in its new seat, and besides, it was midwinter; but there 
were many nabos (which I take to be turnips), that had been 
grown from a Uttle seed; and at the old Mission by the river, 
«ratercresses grew, "of which I ate enough," he records, as, 
indeed, he must have needed to after so many dry weeks on 
the desert, "and finally is the land, as Padre Paterna says, 
like the Land of Promise." ^" 

The situation of San Gabriel in one of the most fertile val- 
leys of California and on the main highway (El Camino Real) 
not only up and down the province, but also between the Col- 
orado River and the coast, made it one of the most important 
of the Missions to travelers. Particularly was this so after 
Los Angeles was founded in 1781, to become in time the 
objective point of the overland travel that crossed the sierra 
by the Cajon and San Felipe passes. One of the picturesque 
features of this travel was the annual autumnal "caravan" 
from New Mexico with its bales of blankets and textiles to 
trade for California horses and mules. Such parties invariably 
stopped at San Gabriel for refreshment and to toast its hospit- 
able Padres in their own mellow claret. But secularization 
changed all that. In 1840 Padre Tomas Estenaga reported 
that there was not a candle in the establishment, no tallow to 
make a candle, and no fat cattle to make tallow; and in 184 1 
the poverty of the Mission was such that he discharged the 
cook! Yet, ten years before, the herds had numbered 25,000 
cattle, 14,000 sheep, and 2000 horses and mules; while the 
gardens and orchards were famous for their richness, abound- 
* Elliott Coues, On the Trail of a Spanish Pioneer, vol. i, p. 261. 

97 



^^t Cafifovnia ^Cibu» 



ing in grapes, oranges, lemons, olives, figs, bananas, plums, 
peaches, apples, pears, pomegranates, raspberries, and straw- 
berries, to say nothing of the usual run of vegetables. That 
Padre Estenaga, by the way, deserves a niche in San Gabriel's 
temple of fame. He was an energetic yoimg Biscayan whose 
sway fell in troublous times, and that anything was held to- 
gether at the Mission after secularization appears to be largely 
due to him. De Mofras gives a breezy picture of him: "I 
found him in a field before a big table, his cowl thrown back, 
his sleeves rolled up, kneading clay and showing some neo- 
phytes how to make adobes. From afar he saw me, waved his 
hand tome, and cried: ' Amigo, con esta familia, consilio manu- 
que!' (Friend, with this family, it must be by precept and 
example!)" 

Prior to secularization, the Mission lands extended south 
to the ocean, west to the bounds of Mission San Fernando, 
north to the Sierra Madre of California (or the Sierra San 
Gabriel, it was then often called), and eastward with lordly 
indefiniteness almost anywhere — at any rate to the Colorado 
River. Much of this area was simply a range for cattle, but 
some fertile spots would be utilized for farming purposes. 
Upon many of those old San Gabriel ranchos flourishing towns 
have risen, such as San Bernardino, Azusa, Chino, Cuca- 
monga, and Puente. So productive were the San Gabriel 
lands and so genial the climate that this Mission has been 
called the Mother of Agriculture in California. It raised 
wheat which Bancroft says the Russians from far Bodega 
Bay sent for, though the land was prepared (as everywhere 
in California before the Americans came) by merely scratch- 
ing with a wooden plough made often of the forked limb of a 
tree, shod at the point with a flat piece of iron, and drawn by 
oxen. One of these wheat ranches of San Gabriel was at La 
Puente, ten miles away. In Mission days God was given 

98 



credit for His part in the crop-raising, and a picturesque cere- 
mony always marked the close of the wheat harvest. Poles 
were lashed together in the form of a great cross, to which the 
last sheaves gathered were bound. A procession of the Indian 
harvesters was then formed, and, with the cross at their head 
they advanced toward the church, the bells of which were 
set ringing for the occasion. Out from the Mission marched 
the Padre in canonicals, accompanied by the altar boys with 
cross, candles, and censers, all chanting a hymn of thanks- 
giving and praise, to meet the approaching procession of the 
sheaves. A general fiesta then followed, and a certain propor- 
tion of the neophyte population was granted leave of absence 
for a specified number of days to visit the monte to gather 
acorns, seeds, and wild fruits, as well as to see their relatives 
and friends in the Gentile rancherias.^ 

Padre Font, already referred to, gives in his diary a circum- 
stantial account of the daily life at San Gabriel, which he 
tells us was much the same at all the Missions: "The dis- 
cipline of every day is this : In the morning at sunrise mass 
is said regularly . . . and the Padre recites with all the Chris- 
tian doctrine, which is finished by singing the Alabado. . . . 
Then they go to breakfast on the atole ^ which is made for all, 
and before partaking of it, they cross themselves and sing the 
Bendito. Then they go to work at whatever can be done, the 
Padres inclining them and applying them to the work by 

^ Guadalupe Vallejo, "Ranch and Mission Life in Alta California," Cen- 
tury Magazine, December, 1890. 

^ A gruel made of meal (com or barley) and boiling water. Both atole and 
pozole are Aztec words for dishes in common use to-day among the Mexican 
peones. In modem Mexico corn-meal is the basis of both. Among the Califor- 
nians, the pozole appears to have been a sort of mush made more substantial 
than atole by the addition of beans, peas, lentils, or meat, as the season or 
means of the Mission afforded. As the Mission system developed with time, 
only the unmarried were served cooked rations at the Mission; the married re- 
ceiving every Saturday the raw material, including beef or mutton, in sufficient 
quantity to last a week. 

99 



€^t CaCifotmia ^abve^ 



setting an example themselves. At noon they eat their pozole, 
which is made for all alike; then they work another stint; and 
at sunset they return to recite doctrine and end by singing the 
Alabado." Thrice each day the Angelus bell rang from the 
Mission belfry, and every neophyte bowed in silent prayer. 
After supper there were prayers and hymns and a salve to the 
Virgin; then music, dances, or games, usually in the cuadro. 
At eight o'clock, the bell rang for prayers for the Poor Souls. 
At nine, the Mission gates were locked and every one was 
supposed to be in bed. The unmarried girls and widows slept 
in the monjerio (a special apartment reserved for them in the 
main Mission building), and, on repairing thither, they filed 
past an Indian overseer who checked off the roll of names. 
Failure to appear meant punishment the next day. Of course, 
after marriage, the woman lived with her husband in one of 
the jacalitos or little houses of the Indian village, close by 
the Mission walls. 

So with the progress of the years did San Gabriel, in com- 
mon with the Missions generally, come to be an Indian pueblo, 
the like of which it is hard for us to imagine who visit it to- 
day. The Indian houses were arranged regularly in streets, 
and at one time the population totaled 1700 souls, as happy 
as mankind usually is, engaged in the varied useful industries 
of civilized life and earning a liberal living from the soil. This 
the Padres held not for themselves, but in trust for their In- 
dian charges, seeking to fit them to be good citizens both of 
this world and the next. 

Now, look on another picture, left by a disinterested eye- 
witness — the state of the descendants of these same In- 
dians, after secularization had "freed" them. The mansos^ 
then remaining in the vicinity of the Mission hired themselves 

^ Literally "tame ones" — the term applied colloquially to the neophytes, 
as distinguished from the wild Gentiles. 

100 



out to work on the ranches, as sheep-herders, harvest-hands, 
horse-breakers, and general hewers of wood and drawers of 
water. After a while the rancheros began to pay these Indians 
in aguardiente. *'By four o'clock every Sunday afternoon, the 
streets of Los Angeles" — I quote from Major Horace Bell's 
"Reminiscences of a Ranger" — "would be crowded with a 
mass of drimken Indians, yelling and fighting. . . . About 
sundown the pompous marshal, with his Indian special dep- 
uties (who had been kept in jail all day to keep them sober), 
would drive and drag the herd to a big corral in the rear of the 
Downey Block, where they would sleep away their intoxica- 
tion and in the morning they would be exposed for sale as 
slaves for the week. Los Angeles had its slave mart, as well 
as New Orleans and Constantinople, only the slave at Los 
Angeles was sold fifty-two times a year as long as he lived, 
which did not generally exceed one, two, or three years under 
the new dispensation." 

A dark picture, but it throws some light, I think, upon the 
San Gabriel Indians' doctrine of hell — that there unques- 
tionably is such a place, but it is only for white people. 

Before San Gabriel's altar are interred the remains of seven 
of the early Franciscans, among them Fr. Francisco Dumetz. 
the last survivor of those of Serra's old companions who re- 
mained in California. But the friar who, more than any other, 
is responsible for San Gabriel's prosperity — that Padre 
Zalvidea of whom we read at San Juan Capistrano — does 
not rest with this goodly fellowship. For twenty years, from 
1806 to 1826, he labored zealously at this Queen of the Mis- 
sions, concerned to advance both her spiritual and temporal 
interests. He was a courteous Biscayan of fine presence, an 
enthusiast in grape-culture, and it was he who brought the 
San Gabriel vineyards to their enviable degree of excellence. 
De Mofras says he was nicknamed El Padre de las Setenta 

lOI 



€^t California Qpabte^ 

Mil Cepas (the priest of the 70,000 vine stocks). When, how- 
ever, on top of certain minor eccentricities that had begun 
to disturb his superiors, he made the astonishing proposal to 
put an iron fence around the beloved vineyards, it was deemed 
wise to give him a change of scene, and, much against his will, 
he was transferred to San Juan Capistrano. Thence later he 
went to San Luis Rey, where he died. It was said of him that 
he never had an enemy and never spoke an unkind word to 
man or beast. 



4nb i^^x (JHwion0 
n 

The Bells of San Gabriel 

AOather a desolate little spot is the campo santo of San 
\*T Gabriel; rather desolate, and very dusty. The ram- 
shackle wooden crosses stagger wildly on the shapeless 
mounds; the dilapidated whitewashed raiUngs, cracked and 
blistered by the sun, look much as though they might be 
bleached bones, tossed carelessly about; and the badly 
painted, misspelled inscriptions yield up their brief announce- 
ments only to a very patient reader. On the whole, depress- 
ing; but in a sleepy, careless way, like the little tumbledown 
houses of the Mexicans, across the road; like, also, the old 
Mission itself, yellowing and crumbling in the warm Cali- 
fornia sun into early decay. 

Walking slowly about among the humble mounds, my mind 
lazily weaving from the names and dates of Sepulvedas and 
Argiiellos and Yorbas, with their romantic sound, a half-sad, 
half-dehghtful tapestry of fancy, I found myself at one in- 
closure of an appearance so different that I stopped to regard 
it particularly. It was the grave of a poor person, clearly, 
and not in that way noteworthy, for poverty was the air of 
the whole place. But it was carefully fenced with a high white 
railing; there were fresh flowers upon it; and it was evident 
that affectionate hands tended it. The short inscription, 
translated from its Spanish, recorded — 

Ysahel, wife of Ramon Enriquez, 

horn July 20, 1875: died October 2j, i8qj 

Much beloved 

Eighteen years old, married, and dead! a sad strand of color 
this, to run into my tapestry, gay with silver lace, coquettish 

103 



^^t CaCifotnia ^abte^ 



fans, and high-heeled Spanish slippers. Eighteen years old, 
married, and dead; and muy querida, much beloved! My 
thoughts stayed behind, as I moved on, and the words, with 
their soft inflection, would recur dreamily to me, again and 
again — muy querida; alas ! muy querida. 

In the shade of a high remaining piece of the ancient mud- 
brick wall, three Mexicans, with cigarettes and sombreros, 
and gaudy as tulips in their striped serapes, were gambling, 
sleepily, at cards: from one of the Uttle houses came the sleepy 
tinkling of a mandolin — muy querida. I wandered over to 
the edge of the Httle cemetery, and, sitting down, leaned 
against the hot wall, under the sleepy, flickering shade of the 
neglected olives and expiring walnuts of the Mission garden. 
Sleepily I watched the anxious labors of a hornet, busily 
building its nest of clay. A dragonfly hung for a moment 
before me, then ahghted on a leaf and was suddenly smitten 
asleep. Everything drowsed, except the everlasting sun, 
pouring down ceaselessly his shriveling rays. Again, over and 
over, my mind dreamily repeated the words — only eighteen, 
married, and dead: muy querida. 

The bells of the Mission are ringing, clear and strong, under 
the practiced hand of old Gregorio. Who can ring like he? 
And to-day, of all days, he is doing his best, for it is the fiesta 
of the blessed San Gabriel himself, and there are people come 
from all the towns of the valley, to say nothing of Los Angeles, 
to the fiesta. Not but what the saint has his day every year; 
but this particular day is a day of days, a fiesta of fiestas: for 
the Padre has arranged a procession in San Gabriel's honor, 
and what Mexican would not ride thirty miles to see a pro- 
cession? So to the hitching-posts all up the long street are 
tied tired horses that have come that hot morning from San 
Fernando, and Calabasas, and farther still. And here and 

104 



Mib t^xt (nii00ion0 



there is a wagon that has brought a whole family, all to do 
honor to San Gabriel, and to see the sight of the day. And 
that is, preeminently, Ysabel Alvarado, the beauty of the 
valley, who is to walk at the head of the procession to the 
church. 

The heart of the beautiful Ysabel is in commotion, some- 
what like the bells themselves, as she listens to them and to 
the clamor of the children, who began to gather an hour 
ago before the cottage, and are now shrilly calling, "Y-ssi-beL" 
And she can hardly stand still while her mother is busily put- 
ting the last touches to the wonderful array in which she is 
to appear. Never before has any girl of the village had clothes 
so beautiful, entirely of white, yes, even to the shoes and their 
rosettes and laces, all of white, so dear to the Mexican heart. 
Moreover, there was the thought of Ramon; Ramon, who 
she thought loved her: to-day would surely prove it, when 
he saw her so dressed, like — yes, indeed — like a grand sefio- 
rita. Ramon had been working in Los Angeles, and there 
there were so many — she sighed to think how many — girls 
for him to choose from. But to-day he was to be here: old 
Marta, her mother, had found out, and told her: and to-day 
would surely tell. There were others, of course: Ramon's 
friend, Felipe, for instance: he was clever, and sang well, and 
she knew he Hked her. But it was Ramon's face that would 
come between her and the little square of looking-glass; and 
it was Ramon, too, who came into her mind — the saints for- 
give her! — even when she turned for a moment to her little 
crucifix, to say a prayer for good fortune, special good fortune, 
that day. 

At last all was ready, even to the final brushing that her 
mother must give to the glossy hair which, parted by the 
dark, beautiful face, fell in a rippling shower almost to her 
knee. It is no wonder that Marta says, as she hovers, brush 

105 



t^^t Cafifomia ^cibxtB 



in hand, about her, "Thou art like the great picture of the 
blessed Santa Barbara, child, that I used to see in the Mis- 
sion where I lived when I was as young as you"; and, to her- 
self, "Ramon had best take care. Such flowers are not to be 
plucked every day as my Ysabelita." And it is no wonder 
that when Ysabel appears at the door, carrying carefully up- 
right the waxen, fragrant spire of white lilies for San Gabriel 
which the Padre has sent to Los Angeles to procure, the ex- 
cited expectation of the village and its visitors releases itself 
in a prolonged "Ah!" that nearly makes her laugh outright 
with happy pride. Least of all is it any wonder that Ramon 
Enriquez, gazing with all his soul, says, under his breath, 
"She is like an angel of heaven; yes, truly an angel is she, my 
Ysabel." 

The bells of the Mission ring happily, happily, as the Uttle 
procession passes into the church: Muy querida, muy querida. 

Again the bells are swinging and ringing in the hot, sunny 
air. But it is not old Gregorio who rings now, one may be sure, 
so irregular are the strokes — loud, soft, quick, slow — as if 
the green old bells were actually out of breath with laughing. 
No, Gregorio has rung for thirty, yes, nearly forty years, and 
his ringing is as steady as the pendulum of the Padre's great 
clock. Ah, it is Juan, young scapegrace! that rings, and out 
of breath, truly, is he; so that for once he is ready to obey 
when admonished by the Padre to leave off. "What a noise 
thou art making, Juanito! I think San Gabriel will be stop- 
ping his ears. Run up the choir steps, boy, and call to me if 
thou seest them coming." Willingly enough the bare-legged 
urchin raced away, and, perched like an acrobat on the nar- 
row rail, holding by a trailing branch of the pepper tree, 
shielded his merry black eyes as he gazed up the road. His 
slender stock of patience was nearly exhausted before the 

io6 



sound of music reached his ears, and started his feet shuffling. 
"Padre, oh. Padre," he cried, "they are coming. I can hear 
the violin: it is Pedro that plays, I would bet anything. Ah, 
he can play! Yes, and Marta is coming first with the holy 
water." 

Down the road comes, again, a procession. One half of the 
village is in it, and the other half views it with animated 
admiration from doorways and verandas. Marta, her old 
black dress for once cast aside, arrayed in yellow and red, 
leads the van, as she has at every wedding for twenty years. 
Following her come three musicians; Pedro, in the center, 
his gray, thin hair straggling over the collar of his well-brushed 
long black coat, with young Vicente and Arturo, the bride- 
groom's brothers, one on either side, accompanying Pedro's 
weird, thin-blooded strain with thrumming mandolins. Next 
come, by two and two, six little girls, pretty as angels, with 
little wild sunflowers in their glossy tresses, and carrying, 
with conscious pride, large bunches of red roses. And here 
are the bride and bridegroom, Ysabel Alvarado, the flower of 
San Gabriel, and Ramon Enriquez, to whose proud, dark 
face hers is often lifted with happy smiles at the words of 
admiration and friendly wishes that reach their ears. 

Now, Juan, ring your loudest, and no one will complain: 
Muy querida, muy querida . . . 

It is the big bell, only, of the Mission, that is ringing now, 
the one in the top embrasure of the arched campanario. It 
rings steady and clear, as Gregorio always makes it, but 
slowly, and the sound that trembles heavily out upon the 
heat-laden air settles down upon the village like a noonday 
shadow. Again there are people gathered for a simple proces- 
sion, and horses are tied to the posts along the street. But 
this time it is not at old Marta's house that the people are 

107 



Z^t CaCifotnta {pcibttB 



gathered, but at the new, white cottage that Ramon Enriquez 
built, a year ago, for his bride. Juan, merry and mischievous 
as a blue jay generally, is sober as he hovers on the outskirts 
of the little group of people. Again the six little girls are wait- 
ing, two and two, but they carry white flowers, lilies, roses, 
and jessamine. Presently Marta appears, a creeping, somber 
figure, black from head to foot. 

The straggling group moves up the street, old Marta at 
the head, talking to herself, and shaking her head. As they 
near the Mission the great door opens, and the Padre comes 
out, followed by four young men, who carry — alas ! my 
heart tells me what they carry — the brightness and light- 
ness of the face and form of Ysabel Enriquez: and there lies 
upon her breast a tiny baby form. Alas! muy querida! Ra- 
mon walks behind, and looks neither to right nor left, as they 
take their place at the head of the Uttle procession. And so 
they go, up the white, dusty road, to the campo santo. 

Muy querida, muy querida, says the great bell: slower and 
slower, muy querida, muy . . . and so, ceases. 

The sun was going down, its warm light dying away up 
the ancient wall. Far away sounded the faint thrumming of 
the mandoUn in the cottage across the road: the three Mexi- 
cans were still silently gambling. 

Yes, it is a desolate little spot, the campo santo of San Ga- 
briel.i 

1 The foregoing sketch was written some short time ago, before certain 
renovations were made about the cemetery which have changed the "atmos- 
phere" of the place. I confess to an unreasonable wish that God's Acre might 
have been spared by the industrious hand of the whitewasher, when the zeal 
for "cleaning up" seized upon the village fathers of San Gabriel. 



SAN FERNANDO 










— -^r* V \ > -C^^ 



Mission San Fernando Rey de Espana, and 
"Padre Napoleon" 

"Still the doves of San Fernando 
To the Padres' fountain wheel, 
And the dark-skinned old senoras 
Tend their roses of Castile." 

^n Fremont's journal of his travels in California in 1844, 
^ there is under date of April 13 the entry of an incident, per- 
haps trivial in itself, but I Hke it both because of its pictur- 
esqueness and because it gives a hint of how far the candle 
of Mission civilization sometimes shot its rays. The expedi- 
tion was in a lonely pass of the Tehachepi Mountains, newly 
out of the solitudes of the San Joaquin Valley and about to 
enter the forbidding wastes of the Mojave Desert. *'In the 
evening a Christian Indian rode into camp, well dressed, with 
large spurs and a sombrero, and speaking Spanish fluently. 
It was an unexpected apparition and a strange, pleasant sight 
in this desolate gorge of a mountain — an Indian face, Span- 
ish costume, jingling spurs, and horse equipped after the 
Spanish manner. He informed me that he belonged to one of 
the Spanish Missions to the south, distant two or three days' 
ride, and that he had obtained from the priests leave to spend 
a few days with his relatives in the Sierra." The Indian 
proved obliging, and for the next three days accompanied 
the white strangers as guide, leading them by sure ways across 
an arm of the desert and finally setting them upon the trail 
that would take them into the old Spanish trail to Santa Fe 
which they were to follow home. 

Ill 



^^t Cafifotnia ^a^xtB 



"Aqui es camino" he said, "no se pierde, va siempre." 
(Here is the trail, it cannot be lost, it goes forever.) Then, 
bidding them farewell, he rode away to the south, "where," 
says Fremont, with a touch of longing, writing up his journal 
that night in his camp amid the sagebrush, sand, and wind, 
"the country is so beautiful, it is considered paradise, and 
the name of its principal town, Puebla de los Angeles, would 
make it angehc." 

The Indian was a manso of the Mission San Fernando Rey 
de Espana, once one of the richest of the Franciscan chain, 
seated in a valley famous for its fertility and beauty. Thither 
from the desert where he left Fremont, the Indian would have 
ridden a day, crossing the Sierra Madre of southern California 
by some trail, perhaps in the Soledad Canon (through which 
the Southern Pacific Railway now runs). Three years later, 
in January, 1847, the whirligig of time landed Fremont him- 
self at this Mission. He and his soldiers quartered themselves 
for a while in its buildings when on their way to Los Angeles 
to fight the Cahfornians, and it was here the preHminary ne- 
gotiations took place that led to the "Capitulation of Cahu- 
enga," and completed the American conquest of California. 

To reach San Fernando Mission from Los Angeles there is 
a choice of routes. The most direct is by electric car which 
will drop you in the flowery park of a company that has for 
sale a large tract of agricultural lands adjacent to the Mis- 
sion, and a two-minute walk brings you to the Mission doors. 
The car ride is through the picturesque Cahuenga Pass from 
which the Portola expedition of 1769 probably had their first 
view of the San Fernando Valley. Padre Crespi in his jour- 
nal tells us that on the hills roundabout they saw live-oaks 
and walnut trees, many, though small, — we may see some 
yet, — and he christened the beautiful mountain-girt vega, 
then populous with Indian life, El Valle de Santa Catalina de 

112 



(xnb t^^ix QUi00ion^ 



Bononia de los Encinos — St. Catherine of Bononia's Valley 
of the Live-Oaks. If you are motoring to the Mission, there 
is no more delightful route than this. Another way is to take 
the steam train to the town of Fernando — it has abandoned 
its former pretentions to saintliness — whence a walk of a 
mile by highway or across the fields will lead you to the 
Mission. 

I availed myself of the latter method, sandwich in pocket 
and camera in hand, resolved to make a day of it. It was 
autumn, still dry and dusty, and the sun was high: and, as I 
walked through a glory of wild sunflowers and across barley 
stubble, my feet released terebinthine incense from blue curls 
and tarweed. A pleasant breeze played in my face, blown from 
the ocean a dozen miles away. At my back rose the Sierra 
Madre, capped with cumulus clouds rolling up from the desert 
where Fremont's trail was; ahead, to the right, ran the blue 
Santa Susana Range, and the Simi Hills (daughter and grand- 
daughters of the Mother Sierra) ; and, on the left, the Santa 
Monica Mountains stretched to the sea. By and by I passed 
a great shallow reservoir of masonry, obviously Mission-made, 
and then some juisache trees (the Acacia Farnesiana, whose 
fragrant balls of fluffy bloom were beloved of the Padres). 
Then came a little forest of tuna cactus, and a crumbling 
adobe wall, and along the last, a dusty path brought me to 
the Mission. 

San Fernando differs from the other Franciscan establish- 
ments in the wide separation of its church part from the con- 
vento wing. Between the two extends a long line of adobe 
rooms, once busy shops, doubtless, but now fast melting 
away under the winter storms. The convento, with its fine 
corridor parallel and flush with the highroad, is the part that 
attracts the passing traveler, and many never see the old 
church at all, so far is it in the rear. It is said — though can 

113 



€^t CaCifomia ^(Xbxt^ 



it have been? — that in the Mission's heyday its buildings, 
set end to end, would have measured a mile. Across the road 
stands a charming old fountain, its broken and weather- 
stained brickwork fortunately thus far spared by the ruthless 
hand of the renovator; and at the foot of a pepper tree that 
shades it, I sat down to rest. Here again was the blessed quiet 
I had often enjoyed in my Mission ramblings. The great 
world with its hurry and noise, its mad race for gold, and its 
cruel competitions, was safe beyond the mountains, and might 
go hang, for me. The wind brought a song from the sea and 
sang it among the leaves above my head; and a flock of 
pigeons dropped whirring out of the blue to drink at the Pa- 
dres' fountain. Pigeons and Padres were ever sworn friends, 
and a Mission was not quite complete without its dovecotes. 
At Mission San Jose, I have read, the Fathers' doves were fed 
their cental of wheat a day besides what they might pick up 
foraging. They were of many colors and made a pretty pic- 
ture on the red tiles of the buildings — that is, those of San 
Jose did. Mine of San Fernando tipped unsteadily at the 
fountain's upper rim and drank daintily, fluttering their 
wings the while. I wondered if they might be great-great- 
grandchildren of some old Padre's pets. After the pigeons 
flew away there came two motor cyclists — a lover and his 
lass, I liked to think them — who stopped their raucous de- 
mon of a machine and sat them down to cool beneath a 
pepper near my own. They chatted lazily in low murmurs 
that harmonized well with the cooing of the doves now perched 
on the ridge-pole of the Mission over the way. To them, now, 
enters a little covered cart most opportunely, drawn by a 
discreet pony with tinkling bells, the outfit of a genial ice- 
cream vender in an immaculate white apron — and the idyl 
is complete. 

By and by an old Mexican afoot stopped at the fountain 

114 




5" ^ ■#-^ -^ 




IN THE RUINED CHURCH, MISSION SAN FERNANDO 



to bathe his hands and moisten his dusty lips. He seemed 
ambitious to practice his English on me, and from him I got 
the following condensed history of the Mission: — 

"Long time, Chorch he have all these Mission; then Com- 
pany; now Chorch he catch 'em ag'in." 
■ This required some elucidation; but, under the stimulus of 
a few cigarritos, we got the matter straightened out. The 
facts, I believe, are that, after secularization, the Mission 
buildings and lands passed into various hands and within 
recent years a company acquired them for a barley ranch. 
The buildings were used partly to house cholos and chickens, 
and partly to store machinery, hay, and divers ranch pro- 
ducts. They were rapidly being reduced to ruin when the 
Landmarks Club of California secured a ten years' lease of 
them, and did what it could to arrest decay by repairs to 
roofs and walls; but, through lack of means, accomplishment 
fell far short of desire. More recently the buildings have re- 
turned to the care of the Catholic Church, though it is not 
evident that the care has progressed further than to clear the 
convento of rubbish, and install a Mexican family in a room 
or two, to watch the establishment. This, however, is some- 
thing. 

I found the corridor full of charm, the more so for its half 
dilapidation. The floor of square brick tiles, worn here and 
there into hollows by feet whose earthly pilgrimage is long 
since ended, the quaint mouldings about doors and windows, 
and the delightful hand-wrought rejas of iron, the work 
doubtless of neophyte masons and blacksmiths — all this 
was material for the artistic soul. Before one door some potted 
plants — a rosemary bush, a geranium, some cactuses, rose 
cuttings, and what not — betokened the caretaker's abode, 
and I knocked. A dark-skinned senora opened to me, and 
I asked if I might see within. Her knowledge of English 

"5 



€^t CaCifoma ^obxtB 



seemed limited to "Please, ten cents." I paid it willingly 
enough and we prepared for the adventure as if for a visit to 
a cave, a lantern being selected from a dozen on the table, 
lighted, and placed in the hands of a pretty httle barefoot 
damsel who would act as my guide. Her name, Consuelo 
Valenzuela, was Hke a strain of music, and indicated member- 
ship in an old Spanish-Californian family. She led the way 
through the various rooms, giving me such scraps of informa- 
tion as she knew, which was not much. All was bare to the 
bone, and of various degrees of darkness, in some the win- 
dows being boarded up tight to keep out intruders. One was 
known to have been the Padres' refectory; in another, some 
gaping cracks in the wall betokened the temblor's visitation. 
Upstairs (which we attained by a narrow adobe staircase, so 
unconscionably steep that I am surprised still that our necks 
and lantern were not broken in the return) was the wreck of 
the rooms where guests of old were lodged; and downstairs, 
underground, I was shown a great adobe wine-vat — a sort 
of Mission version of the Great Tim of Heidelberg — and 
the cellar where, I suppose, the stock of wine and aguardiente 
was stored to mellow — that far-famed vintage of San Fer- 
nando which, the ancient encomium went, was "as the smile 
of Providence." 

Admittance to the old church a year before, I learned, 
would have cost me an additional fee, but a storm of the pre- 
vious winter had brought down a part of the rear wall, and 
as it seemed nobody's business to close the breach, there was 
no longer reason for unlocking the big door to let people in- 
side. And might I go in by the hole? The lady of the key 
smiled pleasantly. "Forque no, senor?" — which is Mexican 
for permission. 

A dozing monkey-faced owl fluttered off among the roof 
beams as I stumbled into the old building, which is a sad 

ii6 



wreck: yet, thanks again to the Landmarks Club (which gave 
it a temporary roof some years ago), not a hopeless wreck, if 
the restoration could be financed. The main features of the 
building, which dates from about 1806, are still recognizable; 
and the casual visitor finds it hard to understand why the 
CathoHc Church in America allows this noble monument of 
one of the noblest activities of her past to drop to pieces 
before her eyes, without spending a copper to stay the decay. 
I found the outer surroundings of the church more to my 
taste than the dismantled inside. There is a little campo 
santo under the north wall, where good Catholics are still 
laid to rest, and a young Mexican girl, apparently in silent 
prayer, stood by a recent grave as I entered. Here some- 
where among those disheveled mounds, where thousands of 
Indians await the Last Day, the record states they laid the 
weary frame of old Padre Pedro Cabot, "El Caballero," whom 
we shall hear of again at Mission San Antonio, but whose 
earthly career was finished at San Fernando. It was not the 
Franciscan way to mark the departed Brothers' graves, and 
I could find no trace of this one. Some linnets, little Cali- 
fornia brothers of St. Francis, were singing lustily in the dried 
mustard stalks by the church wall, and I like to think that 
their melody found it out, wherever it was, and sweetened 
those forgotten ashes. 

There is a bit of history in the view from this quiet ceme- 
tery. Turn your eyes toward the lofty Sierra Madre and let 
them follow the misty crest westward. They will be looking 
toward the place, some fifteen miles away, where gold was 
first mined in quantity in Cahfornia, six years before Mar- 
shall's famous strike in the north. One March day of 1842, 
in a canon at the edge of the Camulos Rancho (once a sheep 
range of the San Fernando Mission, but nowadays known 
to fame as Ramona's fabled home) , a vaquero of the ranch, 

117 



€^t Cafifotnia Qpabt^0 



Francisco Lopez by name, was seeking some strayed horses. 
While taking his siesta at noon, he thought to refresh himself 
with a luncheon of wild onions and, digging for them with his 
sheath-knife, he turned up both wild onions and flakes of 
gold. The news got about, and then followed California's 
first gold rush. People all the way from San Diego and Santa 
Barbara came flocking to San Fernando to share in the golden 
harvest. Operations were under handicap, however, as only 
placer mining was attempted, and water for this was very 
scarce. So, in a couple of years, after about $100,000 had been 
got out, the enthusiasm waned and the people returned to 
their mutton and beef and former unfevered pastoralism.^ 

At the foot of the cemetery is a small arroyo, and just 
across it, on land still belonging to the Church, is the principal 
remnant of the Padres' agricultural operations — the olive 
orchard over which two fine old date palms nobly lord it. The 
olive trees have been severely pruned back of recent years, but 
they are putting on fresh crowns again, and, as I sauntered 
through the green aisles, the memory came naturally to mind 
of the old Padre who, of all San Femando's Brotherhood, was 
most concerned in her temporal prosperity — Fray Francisco 
Gonzales de Ybarra. Here he reigned from 1820 to 1835, ^ 
thickset, fiery, jolly man, who could drive a bargain in hides 
and tallow with the best trader in the land. People called him 
"Padre Napoleon," from his autocratic way of dealing, and 
his insistence upon having San Fernando acknowledged as 
the finest of the Missions and its products the best. He was 
often in hot water with the soldiers, whom he charged, doubt- 
less correctly enough, with debauching his Indians; and his 

^ The existence of gold in California was not unknown to the missionaries, 
before this. The Indians had more than once brought nuggets in from the hills, 
as at Santa Clara and San Luis Obispo; but the Padres discouraged the quest, 
knowing very well that, once the "auri sacra fames" were awakened in the 
land, the Missions would be demoralized. 

118 



defiance of Mexican authority in secularization days was 
unminced. Alfred Robinson got at logger-heads with him in 
a hide trade and called him a niggardly friar whose character 
was not behed by the nickname **E1 Cochino" by which the 
countryside knew him — which, if true, was certainly un- 
complimentary, for it means *'the pig." Robinson's hard 
names of him, however, are unquestionably unjust. A man of 
Ibarra's positive ways would naturally make enemies; but 
he was a good-hearted man, and provided well for his dusky 
family, and that in apostolic doctrine counts for much. He 
quitted San Fernando about the time of its secularization, and 
Monsieur de Mofras found him some years later stationed at 
San Luis Rey, where the Indians approved of him and gave 
him a sobrenombre in their own dialect equivalent to "a good 
fellow." But the Mission days were numbered then; the 
Padre was no longer lord of cattle on a thousand hills, but 
only a poor parish cura; and it is a pitiful picture the French- 
man gives of the old man "forced to sit at the administrador^ s 
table and listen to the ribaldry of mayordomos and vaqueros 
who would have thought themselves lucky, a few years be- 
fore, to have been the Padre's servants." 

The founding of San Fernando Mission, which was in 1797, 
was unique in one respect — its site was not in a wilderness, 
but in a region more or less settled and within a few leagues 
of the pueblo of Los Angeles. The spot fixed upon for the 
buildings was on a private rancho belonging to one Fran- 
cisco Reyes. Don Francisco's views on the preemption of his 
acres I do not find of record, but I think he must have been 
a good son of the Church, for he peacefully yielded his house 
to the friars to occupy while the Mission edifices were build- 
ing. 



€^t CaCifotnia ^ckIx^b 
n 

The Buried Treasure of Simi 

TJl^'S:^ idea of finding buried treasure has always exercised 
^^ what seems to me an unreasonable charm over people's 
minds: unreasonable, not, of course, that there would not be 
charm in finding it, but because of the disparity between the 
amount of attention that has been spent on the quest and the 
real prospect, usually, of success. Treasure islands, treasure 
ships, treasure graves, and many other such possibilities have 
been many times exploited, both in fact and in story; so it is 
not surprising that the California Missions should also have 
had their vogue as a supposed Tom Tiddler's ground. And 
as a matter of fact, a good many of the buildings show plain 
traces of the ravages of pick and shovel, sometimes wielded 
boldly by parties of declared prospectors, but more often in 
secret by knights of the dark lantern. 

Why it should be supposed that riches were buried in these 
places is not clear; but somehow the idea seems to arise auto- 
matically in connection with old or ruined buildings. A recent 
v/riter remarks that "The foolish notion that the Fathers had 
unlimited wealth, nay, gold or silver mines, which they con- 
cealed, was common among the Mexicans of that day, and it 
exists among their descendants to the present time." So far 
as can be known, the seekers have never found anything of 
value. It seems, indeed, unlikely that the Fathers at any of 
the Missions ever could have amassed any sum of money that 
would be much worth secreting. Saving anything out of their 
meager stipend of four hundred dollars per year would have 
been out of the question, even if the sum had been paid in 
money, in full, and regularly, none of which desirable condi- 

I20 



tions seems to have been met; while as' to hoarding from 
the proceeds of the industries carried on at the Missions, al- 
though the returns must have been large, the expense of car- 
ing for a family of a thousand or so Indians must have been 
proportionately heavy. And in addition there are to be 
reckoned the exactions of the provincial Government, which 
seems to have looked upon the Missions generally as a sort of 
providential and inexhaustible milch cow. So that the latest 
defender of the Padres, the learned Father Zephyrin Engel- 
hardt, is probably justified in holding that their riches were 
all of unworldly metal, and consisted only in "their con- 
scientiousness, industry, economy, and abstemiousness." 
Such intangible valuables, it may be remarked, if they could 
be recovered by delving, would certainly not have proved, in 
the estimation of the delvers, a satisfactory reward. 

The Mission of San Fernando, some twenty miles north- 
west of Los Angeles, has more than once been the scene of 
these unhopeful quests. The visitor, who might be curious 
concerning sundry excavations noticed in the foundations 
of the massive adobe walls, would be told by the old Mexi- 
can who acted as custodian of the ruin — it is hardly more 
than that — that they were made by "malos hombres, lad- 
rones, que huscahan dinero'^; and, with a shrug, "Tontos! no 
cogieron no mas que polvo, mucho polvo, mucho trahajo'" (bad 
men, thieves, who were looking for money. Fools! they got 
nothing but dust, plenty of dust and plenty of work) . And 
with a chuckle old Tomas would lead the way up the next 
rickety stairway. 

Yet, one cannot tell. There may have been instances of 
treasure being buried about the Missions, on some emergency 
arising, since, in the times we are thinking of, the only means 
of safe-keeping sums of money that were too large to be car- 
ried on the person was the secreting of them in the walls of 

121 



€$^ CdCifotnia {p(xW& 



buildings or in the ground. Be that as it may, perhaps the 
reader will have a better explanation of the facts of the fol- 
lowing narrative than the one with which I conclude it. 

On the afternoon of a warm day of June, some twenty sum- 
mers since, I was making my way from Los Angeles to the 
coast by way of the San Fernando Valley and the road that 
runs through the Simi Hills. It was yet the dawn of the auto- 
mobile era, and direction signs did not then, as now, give the 
traveler on Cahfornia roads the certainty of his route that he 
now enjoys; and I found myself, at late afternoon, in consid- 
erable doubt whether I had not mistaken my way, with the 
probability, if that were the case, of having to camp for the 
night in the open. My horse would not sufifer, for there was 
forage in abundance, and water was not hard to find thus 
early in the summer ; but it was annoying for myself, for I had 
but a scrap of food and no blankets. The road, well traveled 
at first, that I had been following for two hours past, had for 
some distance been showing signs of degenerating into a trail 
(in that inexplicable way that roads sometimes have), and 
now it seemed about to "peter out" finally on a hillside of 
yellowing grass. Yet I knew I had been making in the right 
direction, even if off my road, so I was loath to turn back. 
The road, or trail, probably led somewhere, and I decided to 
keep on as long as any track could be seen leading westerly. 

Two miles or so farther brought me to the end of all tokens 
of travel. The track had dwindled to less and less, and now 
had dropped to the bouldery bed of a canon stream, from 
which no woodcraft of mine, nor of my good trail-wise horse, 
could perceive that it made an exit. If the trail continued, it 
must follow the bed of the stream. At any rate, here was 
water, the first requisite for a camp; I decided to go on for 
a while, but to stick to the creek, for safety. Dismounting, I 

122 



led Pancho forward by the bridle among the slippery boulders. 
The sun was well out of sight, and the chirring of crickets 
among the herbage announced that soon the evening shades 
would prevail. Evidently, camping was to be my portion, so I 
kept my eyes open for a good spot for the purpose. The canon 
appeared to widen out a little way ahead : there I should prob- 
ably find good grazing for the horse (though not, I ruefully 
reflected, for myself). Arriving at the opening, I found, as I 
expected, grassy slopes rising from the creek, and resolved to 
make here my bivouac. 

Taking off saddle and bridle I turned Pancho loose to graze, 
while I gathered wood for a fire. The dusk was soon enlivened 
by a crackling blaze, beside which I sat to eat a sandwich and 
a scrap of chocolate, reserving an equivalent banquet for the 
morning. Pancho munched away cheerfully, the stream tin- 
kled and purred; the first star telegraphed its friendly signal 
down through the ether: to be lost in the Simi was not half 
bad. 

My supper (since it must be so called) over, and Pancho 
picketed for the night, I walked a short way up the canon in 
the gloaming. Some two hundred yards from camp, at a point 
where the stream made a turn, I stopped in sudden surprise 
at the sight of a light shining among a clump of small live- 
oaks near by to my right. "Well," I said to myself, "so I am 
on a trail, after all. Can there be a house here, too? " A few 
steps, and my question was answered, for I saw that the light 
shone through the open window of a little house of adobe. 
What should I do? My appearance at this lonely spot at 
night would cause so much surprise that I hesitated. But I 
was quite conscious that I had made an unduly light supper, 
and, moreover, that I was in the way of making no better a 
breakfast. Probably I could buy here a little food, and at any 
rate, I could get information as to my road: so I approached 

123 



€^t CaCifotnia ^aW^ 

the house. There was an attempt at a garden, I saw, and 
growing against the window was a bush of the red-flowered 
sage which I have noted as being a general favorite with 
Mexicans. As I came up to the door I heard voices, and caught 
a glimpse through the window of a woman sitting at a rough 
table, eating. At the same moment a dog within the room 
started up and barked loudly. It seemed to be my cue to 
speak as well as knock, so, acting on a vague assumption that 
the people were Mexicans, I called, "Buenas noches!" 

The talking ceased abruptly, and with it the music of knife 
and fork on crockery. I knocked and called again, "Buenas 
noches!^^ A chair moved, and a man's voice said, "Abajo, 
perro!" whereupon the bark was exchanged for an equally 
uncomfortable growling. Then the door was thrown open, 
and a man, standing in the doorway, asked in Spanish, "Who 
is there? " In a few words I explained my presence, adding 
that I was short of food and should be glad to purchase a 
little. " Enter, sefior," he invited, and, as I did so, " Carlota," 
he said to one of two well-grown girls who sat by the woman, 
"Carlota, give your seat to the caballero." The woman had 
risen already, and in a matter-of-fact way was putting a plate 
and cup, evidently for me. My first impulse was to explain 
that I had had my supper; but I have always found frank 
acceptance to be the best reply to the frank hospitality of 
these courteous people, and with an expression of thanks I 
took the offered place and was ready to share their meal. 

I now had an opportunity to notice my entertainers. The 
man was a strongly built, good-looking, middle-aged Mexi- 
can; the wife (as I took her to be) placid- looking, kindly- 
featured, and of the national middle-aged stoutness. The 
two children were slender, attractive girls, verging on the 
early womanhood of their race. I think they were twins. 
This, I supposed, comprised the household, until, my glance 

124 



following the wife as she went to the stove, I saw another 
person. A man, apparently deformed, sat by the fire, bent 
forward, his hands resting on a stick. But doubled over as he 
was, his eyes, black and piercing, followed every movement 
made by any of us. My host, by whom I sat, said in a low 
voice, "He is my brother, senor: he is very ill." I was on the 
point of making some remark of condolence when he added, 
*'He cannot speak, senor: he is dumb." Feeling that it would 
be best not to refer to the matter, and to turn the conversa- 
tion, I inquired as to the road I had missed, and whether 
I could get through to the coast without returning. This I 
learned I could do, my host promising to put me in the way 
in the morning. 

Just as supper, which proved to be a cheerful meal, was 
over, the invahd in the corner, rapping with his cane on the 
floor, gave notice that he needed attention. Carlota went 
quickly to him and helped him to rise, and then led him, 
slowly and with no little trouble, into an adjoining room. As 
he shuffled past where I sat, my eye caught the glitter of some 
object of metal that swung by a cord from his neck, in the 
fashion of a medal. This I later decided it to be, when I 
noticed what seemed to be an exactly similar object on a Uttle 
shelf or bracket, fixed to the wall, on which stood a small 
figure of the Virgin. The woman now rising to clear the table, 
I rose also, and, thanking my kind entertainers for their hos- 
pitality, asked what I owed them, saying also that I should be 
glad to buy a little food of them before leaving in the morning. 
They would accept no money for the meal, however, and I 
forbore to press them. As I took my hat to go, my host asked, 
"Will you not sit a while by the fire? It is yet early, and it is 
cold outside." I gladly assented, and, offering him my pouch, 
a friendly smoke began. 

The seats at the table were heavy benches, not easily 

125 



^^t Cafifotnia ^abtr^u 



moved, but in the corner by the stove, where the sick man had 
sat, I saw a dark, box-like object which would serve for a 
chair. I was about to seat myself on this when my host (whose 
name, I learned, was Leandro Rojas) hastily interfered. " Not 
on that, seiior," he said: ''it would be bad fortune, very bad 
fortune," at the same time pulling one of the benches forward. 
On this we both sat, and chatted, somewhat haltingly on my 
part, for my Spanish was no more fluent than his English. I 
was curious about that bad-omened seat in the corner, espe- 
cially as I felt pretty^ sure it was on that that the invalid 
had been sitting: but, not wishing to violate my friend's 
superstitions, I refrained from alluding to the matter. My 
gaze, however, often reverted to the puzzling object, which in 
the dim Hght appeared to be a small but solid chest of some 
dark wood, heavily clamped with iron bands, and, I thought, 
having something carved on the lid. I suppose Seiior Rojas 
noticed me looking at the chest with interest, and when, in 
the course of conversation, I asked whether his brother had 
long been ill, he replied, "Yes, senor, many years; but my 
wife does not like it talked of: it is ill fortune to talk of bad 
luck, she says. And the box is bad fortune, that is certain. I 
wish it were not here. But I will tell you about it when we go 
out of the house." 

I spent with them a pleasant hour, finding topics of mutual 
interest — among them the perennial one of rattlesnakes, of 
which I had found the region unduly prolific, and the need of 
schooling for the children, who, though attractive and well- 
mannered, had never made the acquaintance of even slate and 
pencil. On bidding them good-night, I asked whether I might 
breakfast with them (on the strict understanding of payment 
for the meal), and was glad when they willingly agreed. 

When I left the house, Leandro said he would walk with me 
to my camp, and I took the opportunity^of asking about the 

126 



chest. "I will tell you, senor," he said, "though it is bad for- 
time, and I wish I had never seen it. See what it has done to 
my brother!" " Was it the box that hurt your brother? " I 
asked. "How? did it fall on him?" "Oh, no, senor, nothing 
like that," he replied. "It was his horse that hurt him ; but all 
the same it was the box that did it. My wife says so, and I say 
so, too. Pedro, I do not know what he thinks, but then, he is 
as you see. This is how it happened, senor. 

"It was many years ago, yes, nearly twenty years. We 
were both young then, and we worked on the Escorpion, for 
Don Guillermo. My father used to work for him too : he was 
a foreman on the ranch: and when Pedro and I were old 
enough to ride after the cattle he made us vaqueros. Pedro 
was strong in those days, yes, stronger than I am now, and 
quite tall. There was no one who could ride like Pedro on the 
Escorpion. To see him now ! ay de mi ! Well, senor, one day 
some steers were missing, twelve or fifteen or more, and my 
father sent us, Pedro and me, to find them and bring them in. 
We hunted for them one day, two days, and could not find 
them. The range was getting poor on the Escorpion, but it 
was still good in the hills, and my father said the cattle must 
have gone up to the Simi. So the next morning we started 
toward the Simi, and it was not long before we found their 
tracks, coming toward the hills. We followed them all that 
day, and nearly at night we found them. It was in a little val- 
ley that is quite near here: you will go through it to-morrow, 
senor. 

"We had brought food with us, for we knew we might be 
more than one day out, and when we had found the cattle we 
looked for a place to camp. We headed the steers down the 
creek, and came out into tiiis canon. And here we saw the 
house, the same house, seiior: so you see it is quite old, but 
it was old then, too. We were surprised, for we did not know 

127 



^§e CaCifomia ^cibxt0 



there was a house there at all, and we had been bom at San 
Fernando, and we thought we knew everybody that lived this 
way as far as Ventura. It was nearly dark, and there was no 
light in the house nor anybody about, though the house did 
not look quite as if no one lived there. We should have Hked 
to use it to sleep in, but we thought some one must live there, 
and might come in, so we made a camp on the creek. Just 
about here, where your camp is, is where we slept. 

"In the morning, after we had eaten, Pedro said he was 
going to look inside the house. I was saddHng the horses and 
did not go with him. In a few minutes I heard him call, so I 
went to the house. Pedro was standing at the door, and he 
looked white and frightened. 'There are dead people here,' he 
said : ' they are all dead.' He went in and I went in after him. 
In the back room there was a bad sight, a very bad sight, 
senor : a lot of bones lying all about the room, and there were 
three skulls among them. In the middle of the room was that 
box you saw, with the lid open. There was a big bone, Uke a 
leg bone, lying right across it, I remember. Zape ! a bad sight 
that was. 

"It must have been a long time since they had died, 
months, perhaps years, two or three, from the look of the 
place and the bones. The coyotes had been in, and nothing 
but the bones and some bits of clothing was left. They had all 
been men, at least I think so, because there were no women's 
clothes. In the box there were pieces of money, twenty or 
thirty, or perhaps more. I did not like to touch it, with the 
dead men all about there: but Pedro, he was always one who 
cared for nothing. He said it was lucky to find them: the 
money was n't dead, he said, and he laughed at me. He 
picked up one of the coins : it was a silver peso of Spain, very 
old. Was it not strange, seiior? All the money was the same, 
all pesos and all old. I have never seen any more like them. 

128 



"Well, Pedro said we ought to take the money. The dead 
men could not spend it, he said, so it was foolish to leave it. 
But I would not touch it, not one piece. I wanted to burn the 
bones, and at last Pedro helped me. We picked them all up, 
the skulls and all. Diantre! it wa,sha,dwork\ I wanted to put 
them in the box, and burn all together, and bury the money. 
But Pedro would not : he wanted the money, and he said he 
would have the box too. So instead of burning them, we 
buried them, that is, the bones. We found an old spade, and 
dug a place behind the house, among the sycamores on the 
hill — you will see to-morrow — and buried them. 

"Then we had to go to take the cattle back to the ranch. 
Pedro would take the money: he put it in his clothes. It was 
quite heavy, and you could hear it, so he put some in his 
shoes and in other places. I asked him what he would do with 
the box, because he would not burn it. He said he wanted it 
because it had been good luck to find it: he would get it 
some day and keep it. Then we went away with the cattle. 
Pedro said we should not tell anybody about what we had 
found, nor about the dead people; and there was no one to 
tell, I mean the ofl&cers, unless we went to Los Angeles. So 
I did not say anything, and Pedro did not, because he had 
taken the money. 

"It was not long before he had used it up. I don't know 
where he spent it, for there was no money like it, and people 
would ask where he got it : but somehow he spent it, all but 
two pesos. Then one day he asked me to come with him to 
the place again : he wanted to see if the box was there, and if 
anybody lived in the house. I did not want to see the box, 
but I wanted to know if any one lived there, so I came with 
him. It was about a year after we had found the dead men 
and the money. It was a Sunday, and we got to the place 
about noon, for we started early. Everything was like we had 

129 



Z^t CaCifointia ^abxts 



left it, and it did not look as if any one had been to the house. 
The box was there, and it was open; and then I noticed that 
there was some writing on a piece of paper inside the Ud. It 
must have been there when we saw the box before, but we had 
not noticed it. It was very old and yellow, and torn, too, and 
we could not read it. They did not seem like Spanish words. 
We stayed an hour, maybe, and then I said we should go, so 
as to get back before night. Then Pedro said to me, why 
should n't we come and live here in the house. We each had 
a few head of cattle of our own by that time, nearly twenty 
all together, and the range here was very good. He was tired 
of working on the Escorpion, he said. The place did n't be- 
long to anybody, as far as we could tell, and we could make 
a good home here and do well with our cattle. 

"I forgot to say that I had got married a little time before, 
and I said my wife would not come so far away from her peo- 
ple. They lived at Calabasas. I did n't like the idea of living 
in that house, though I liked the land and wanted to have a 
place of my own, now that I was married. So we were talking 
about it when we got on our horses to ride back. We rode past 
the sycamore trees, where we had buried the bones of the 
dead] men. Just when we passed the place, my brother's 
horse jumped at something, and threw him off. He fell against 
a sharp rock that hurt him in the back. He was quite still, 
and I thought he was dead. For a long time he did not move, 
but I could see he was breathing. I got water and threw it on 
him many times, and at last he opened his eyes. But he could 
not move, senor, nor speak either: the rock had hurt his back- 
bone, and his legs were like dead. He was a paralitico, and he 
has never been able to move, any more than you saw him 
move, nor talk either. 

"I did not know what to do. It was many miles to the 
ranch, and there was no one that lived anywhere nearer. My 

130 



CKXxb t^eir QUt00ion0 

brother was in much pain, so I could not put him on his horse : 
I was afraid of hurting him more. He could not talk, but he 
pointed at the house, for me to take him there. There was 
nothing else to do, and at last I got him there. Then I said 
I must go and get help to take him away, but he shook his 
head and would not let me go. I think he thought he might 
as well die there as anywhere, and he was half dead an>^way. 
But I had to go to get food, and I thought I could bring a 
doctor also. I left him some water, and got on my horse ::nd 
rode — cielo, how I rode I — for I thought he might be dead 
when I got back. It was dark most of the way, and it was mid- 
night when I got to the ranch. I got help, and sent for a doc- 
tor to come from Los Angeles. My wife — she is a good 
woman, my wife, Elena, senor — she said she would come 
with me to nurse Pedro if he could not be brought away. 
We were back at the house the next day early, two cousins of 
mine and my wife and myself. Pedro was hing where I had 
left him, but he was out of his head. Whenever he saw the 
box he would try to get up and go to it, so I put it where he 
could not see it. I had never told my wife about the box and 
the money: I thought it would only do harm to talk about it. 
"The doctor came the next day. He said Pedro would 
never be able to walk; he might be able to speak after a while; 
but he never has. The doctor told us he ought not to be 
moved for a long while. And so we stayed, senor, and we 
have never gone away. Don Guillermo was very good: I 
think God makes people good to one when one is in trouble, 
is it not so, senor? He gave me ten more cattle; two of them 
were good milch cows. That made thirty head we had all to- 
gether. And he sent us a lot of flour, and coffee and frijoles; 
and then he found who owned the land the house was on : it 
was an American, who lived in San Francisco and never 
came here at all; and Don Guillermo told him about my 

131 



't^t California ^obxtB 



brother getting hurt, and he promised that we could have the 
house and the grazing for nothing for three years, and then 
pay a little when we could. After about ten years I bought 
the place, about fifty acres, and now it is my own. 

'' So it was bad fortune the box brought us, as I said, senor, 
but good fortune, too. Did you see what my brother has 
round his neck, senor? It is one of the pesos. He had two of 
them left when he was hurt : he had always said he would keep 
those two for more luck, as he called it. One day, after he 
was hurt, I saw him making a hole in one of them, and he hung 
it round his neck. He gave me the other. I did not want to 
take it, so I put it on the shelf for Our Lady. You can see it in 
the morning, and you can see the box, too. My wife would 
like to burn it, and so would I, but Pedro will not let us, and 
he always sits on it. There is carving on it, an 'F' and a 'Y,' 
I think, and there is the writing inside, though much of it is 
gone now. Perhaps you can tell what the writing says: I 
should like to know, if there is enough left to tell by. 

"Well, it is late, and Elena will be going to bed. I am sorry 
that we have no room for you to sleep in, senor, but the house 
is small, and we are so many women and sick. Buenas noches, 
senor." 

I was much interested in the strange story I had heard, 
and lay for some time awake, trying to fit a working theory 
to the black chest and the Spanish dollars, but with no suc- 
cess. It was a puzzle that was worth a good deal of trouble 
to unlock if it could be done, and I was eager for daylight, to 
get a good view of the box. Probably the invalid would not 
be up so early as the rest of the family, who had breakfast, 
I had learned, at six o'clock. I was prompt upon the hour, 
and while waiting a few minutes before the meal was ready, 
I examined the silver piece and the chest. The coin was a 
large one, Spanish, as my host had said, and bore the inscrip- 

132 



tion of Carlos III, with the date 1787, and the arms of Castile 
and Leon. The box I examined with special attention. It was 
exceedingly heavy for its size, which was about thirty inches 
long by fourteen wide and ten deep, and was made of the dark, 
hard wood of some tropical tree that had withstood decay 
wonderfully. On the upper side of the lid were cut the letters 
"F Y" in plain, deep carving, encircled with an elaborate 
scroll, this somewhat defaced and broken in outline. Three 
heavy strips of iron were fastened round the shorter circum- 
ference, one near each end of the box and one at the middle. 
At the ends were strong wrought-iron handles, and there was 
a curious lock, also of wrought-iron. I opened the lid, and 
there, as Leandro had said, were the remains of a sheet of 
parchment, vellum, or heavy hand-made paper, which had 
been glued to the wood, but the greater part of which was torn 
or worn away. It was evident that the writing was too much 
defaced to allow of more than a mere guess at its purport, but 
by the not very good light I copied what I could decipher of 
the inscription. This is what I made out : — 

hac ar osit unt num tria mi et qu enti qui 

pert anc Mi Sane in cujus fini 

utelam ob lat hoc lito atis com 

area absco a est. 

rra. 

Oc 1824. 

I had hardly finished my transcription when my hostess 
entered saying that breakfast was ready in the kitchen : so no 
attempt at working out the puzzle could be made at the time. 
Pedro's food was taken to him by Carlota, and he did not 
appear before I left. During the pleasant meal, I looked with 
added respect at the woman whose goodness of heart had led 
her willingly to undertake, and to carry day by day for many 
years, the burden of a hopeless, and I fear an ungrateful, in- 

^33 



€^t Caftfotnia ^obxtB 



valid (though, indeed, from my experience of the kindliness, 
and especially the strength of the family bond among the 
Mexican people, I might well have been prepared for such 
magnanimity). 

Soon after breakfast I bade them farewell, Leandro ac- 
companying me a short distance to show me my road. When 
we came to part, no further word had been said regarding 
Pedro or the mysterious chest. I said nothing, for I had no 
theory to offer. When we shook hands, after thanking him 
heartily I remarked that I hoped we might meet again, add- 
ing, as an afterthought, "and in a luckier house." "Yes, 
senor," he said, "but it is not the house that is unlucky: Our 
Lady attends to that. It was the money, and, you see," — 
with a smile — "I gave her the half of what was left. Do you 
know, senor, sometimes I think the money was stolen from 
the Church. That would account for all, is it not so? They 
say the churches had much money once. Quien sabe ? Adios 
senor." 

As I turned Pancho into the trail that would bring me to 
the Ventura road, my mind was busy at a clue that Lean- 
dro's parting words had started. "F Y," the letters carved 
on the chest — somehow they seemed to link up with some- 
thing in my memory. Who was that Padre of whom Robin- 
son, in his "Life in California," spoke with a good deal of dis- 
paragement? The surname initial was surely a "Y," and it 
seemed to me that San Fernando was the Mission where the 
depreciated Father dwelt. Yorba, Ybarronda, Ybaiiez, 
Ybarra — yes, that was it: Ybarra, sure enough, and the 
first name was Francisco, it seemed to me; and I felt sure now 
that it was at San Fernando that Robinson encountered him. 
All circmnstantial evidence, no doubt, but highly interesting. 
To try another link — did the scraps of writing give any sup- 
port to my idea? I took out my notebook: unmistakably 

134 



anb i^dx (JUi00ion0 

there were the letters "rra" remaining where naturally the 
signature would be written. All the rest of the name was gone 
except a fragment of rubric, but that embellishment again 
made it plain that the letters were part of a name. 

With that I had to be satisfied, both then and now. Matters 
of more personal importance soon pushed the problem into 
the back of my mind. Once, indeed, chancing on a copy of 
the torn inscription, I spent an idle hour in trying to fashion 
the oddments into a possible connected whole. In case the 
reader should be interested in such exercises, I will give my 
tentative solution. 

I take the writing, as far as the signature, to have been in 
Latin, and this is my guesswork rendering: the reader may 
perhaps improve upon it: — 

In hac area depositi sunt nummi tria millia et quingenti qui 
pertinent ad hanc Missionem de Sancto Fernando, in cujus finibus 
ad cautelam ob latrocinia hoc litore a piratis commissa haec 
area abscondita est. 

Francisco Ybarra. 
Oct. 1824. 

My chain of guesses, then, is that the old chest that I saw 
in that house in the Simi Hills may have once been the per- 
sonal property of Fray Francisco Ybarra, sometime priest in 
charge of the Mission of San Fernando. That he, on the ap- 
proach of some marauders, buried the chest, with the stated 
sum of money in silver pesos of Carlos III, in some hiding- 
place about the Mission precincts. That for some unguess- 
able reason the chest was never taken up by the priest or his 
successors; but that long years afterwards, probably not less 
than fifty, some party of treasure-seekers (of whom there are 
evidences of there having been many at that Mission) came 
upon the buried chest. That it was transported by them to 
the lonely house in the mountains, some twenty miles dis- 

135 



Zi}^ CaCifomia ^CLbu& 



tant. That there, a quarrel occurred over the booty, and that 
the survivor or survivors of the fatal affray, if any there were, 
did not, for some reason, carry off in their flight all the treas- 
ure. The rest of my theory is embodied in the foregoing nar- 
rative. 

But after all, as to the whole matter, probably there is 
little to be said that is more to the point than the all-embrac- 
ing phrase of Leandro, and of Spain and Mexico in general 
— Quien sabe ? — Who knows? 



SAN BUENAVENTURA 







Mission San Buenaventura: Its Gardens and 
"Padre Calma" 

^^'^hen those pioneers of Spain, under Portola, after de- 
^^*^ scending the valley of the Santa Clara River, reached 
the seacoast, they found there many Indians dwelling in 
brush houses shaped like half an orange. They were folk of 
a better grade of life and intelligence than those of the more 
southern Missions; for the Spaniards now had tapped the 
territory of the Chumash, that family which once inhabited 
the islands of the Santa Barbara channel and the shores of 
the adjacent mainland from San Buenaventura to San Luis 
Obispo, Only graves now tell the tale of this race's achieve- 
ment, but out of them have been taken artifacts representing 
no mean order of culture, showing the people to have been 
carvers of wood and stone, musicians on flutes delicately 
fashioned from bones of sea-birds, fishermen with hooks (even 
barbed) beautifully worked out of abalone shell. ^ All the 
early explorers of the California coast speak of the friendliness 
and hospitality of these aborigines. They were, in a way, the 
vikings of California: no other Indians between Cape San 
Lucas and Cape Mendocino had advanced in naval architec- 
ture beyond the bunching together of tule into flimsy rafts 
hardly safe even in still inland waters. The boat of the 
Chumash, however, was really a boat, even a sea-goer, built 

1 The curious in such matters will find on exhibit in the museum of the Los 
Angeles Chamber of Commerce many of these really remarkable remains of 
Chumash workmanship. De Mofras says their basketry was of such extreme 
fineness that it would hold water. 



of planks lashed together and made watertight with an appli- 
cation of asphaltum which oozes out of the ground in many 
parts of California. Vancouver, coasting down from Monterey 
in 1793, notes, with a sea-dog's appreciation, the adroit han- 
dling of these canoes propelled by long paddles, that put out 
toward his ships somewhere off San Luis Obispo. 

The day of Portola's arrival was August 14, 1769, the 
vespers of the Catholic Feast of the Assumption: and so, as 
Padre Crespi tells us, the rancheria received from him the 
name of La Asuncion de Ntiestra Senora, — the Assumption 
of Our Lady, — through whose intercession he hoped that 
fine locaHty, which seemed to lack nothing, might in time 
become a good Mission. 

It did — in 1782 the Mission of San Buenaventura. Dana, 
visiting it in 1835 (a little over half a century after the found- 
ing), described it as "the finest mission in the whole country, 
having very fertile soil and rich vineyards." Our gossip, Don 
Alfredo Robinson, too, was in a good humor with it, having, 
a few years before Dana, had a sumptuous dinner at the 
Padres' table. This Mission's gardens and orchards at that 
time supplied fruit and vegetables to the whaling ships that 
were wont to call at Santa Barbara. The gardens were along 
the banks of the Ventura River, which was also famous for 
its trout. At the time of Robinson's visit, Padre Francisco 
Uria, of whom we shall hear again, was one of the resident 
priests. Don Alfredo says the Padre carried a long stick with 
which to thump the dull heads of the Indian boys who waited 
on him, and four great cats were his daily companions. I 
think I can see those four pussies, clustered about the clerical 
chair at meal- times, expectant of scraps and getting them; 
and I forgive him for thwacking the Indian skulls, which 
doubtless were less hurt than stimulated. 

As horticulturists the missionaries of San Buenaventura 

140 



were, indeed, preeminent. Even as early as 1793, when the 
Mission was not yet in its teens, Vancouver writes about their 
gardening as enthusiastically as any twentieth-century tour- 
ist. "The garden of Buena Ventura," he tells us, "far ex- 
ceeded anything I had before met with in these regions, both 
in respect of the quantity, quality, and variety of its excellent 
productions, not only indigenous to the country, but apper- 
taining to the temperate as well as the torrid zone; not one 
species having yet been sown or planted that had not flour- 
ished. These have principally consisted of apples, pears, 
plums, figs, oranges, grapes, peaches and pomegranates, to- 
gether with the plantain, banana, cocoanut, sugar cane, 
indigo, and a great variety of the necessary and useful kitchen 
herbs, plants and roots. All these were flourishing in the 
greatest health and perfection, though separated from the 
seaside only by two or three fields of corn, that were culti- 
vated within a few yards of the surf." 

All vestige of those gardens is long since departed if we 
except two ancient date pahns that Uf t picturesque mops high 
in air in one of the side streets of the Uttle Mission city; but 
as I strolled about, after the train from Los Angeles had left 
me, it was like finding an old friend to see cornfields still as 
in Vancouver's day, close to the surf, along the bluff by the 
beach. It was Sunday morning, and the sound of bells calhng 
to mass turned me in quest of the old Mission, dedicated to 
that Doctor Seraphicus of Tuscany whom, while still an in- 
fant, St. Francis is said to have bent over and to have hailed 
prophetically, "0 buona ventura!" I believe that modern 
scholars, in their skeptical fashion, have thrown doubt on the 
pretty tradition; but there is another story that I like as well, 
which may rest on better authority. St. Thomas Aquinas, 
impressed with the marvelous variety and depth of the 
Doctor's learning, asked one day for the books whence he 

141 



^^^ CdCifotnia ^abteif 

got it, and Bonaventure, with the simple fervor of a true 
Franciscan, held up his crucifix. "From this wellspring of 
light and love," said he, "I have received whatever I have put 
into my lectures and writings." 

Only the church part of the Mission San Buenaventura 
now stands and it is engulfed in houses of the town. The eccle- 
siastical authorities in charge of its latter-day destinies seem 
to have had no desire to perpetuate the memory of the old 
Franciscan days; for when, in 1893, the structure, was reno- 
vated, the work was done on modern lines. I remember noth- 
ing within, now, in the way of a Mission motif, or to encour- 
age visitors as visitors. In fact, during my stay in Ventura, 
I always saw the front door shut tight when service was not 
in progress, and ingress for worshipers was only through the 
adjoining grounds of the priest's house, as I learned from a 
none too hospitable sign posted there. Fortunately the stone 
walls were too substantial to offer the renovators any excuse 
for leveling them, though they modernized the windows; and 
the tourist may be thankful that there is not a wooden steeple 
with gingerbread frills in place of the unmistakable Mission 
bell tower which still sturdily stands to tinge 

" the sober twilight of the present 
With color of romance." 

The bulk of the present church building dates from 1809; but 
the earthquake of el am de los iemblores, three years later, so 
shattered the forward end that the fagade and campanario 
were taken down and replaced by the front and bell tower 
that we now see. These were completed in 1818. We may be 
grateful, too, that the Mission's stately name has not suffered, 
officially at least, as the town's has, by being shaved down 
to Ventura. The townspeople are proud of their Mission, and, 
if you care to climb the hill at the back of it, you will find at 
the summit a huge cross of hewn timber, the crosspiece lashed 

142 



in place with rawhide, erected by a local club in 191 2 to take 
the place of the cross said to have been planted on that emi- 
nence by the first Franciscans. 

It was at this Mission, during its golden age from 1797 to 
1823, that there lived Padre Jose Francisco de Paula Seiian, 
one of the worthiest of the CaHfornia Franciscans. Even Ban- 
croft, chary as he is of unqualified praise for the frailes, finds 
Padre Senan "a model missionary." A scholarly friar, tem- 
peramentally averse to ofl&cial preferment and to the political 
wrangling into which the antagonism of military officialdom 
would often force the missionaries, he still was no shirker of 
public duty, and at different times filled the positions of Presi- 
dent of the Missions, Vice-Prefect and Vicario foraneo. In 
his latter years, he was commissioned to write a history of 
California and accepted the task, but the work seems never 
to have taken shape. His brother friars in their perplexities 
were prone to come to him for advice, which it was always 
his delight to give. He was a short, fat man, of quiet maimers, 
and the Spanish-CaUfomians, who had a genius for packing a 
whole character-study into a nickname, gave him the sobre- 
nombre of "Padre Calma" — Father Tranquillity, as we 
should say. He died one summer day of 1823, with his cruci- 
fix at his lips, and was buried in the Mission church on the 
epistle side of the altar. Across from him on the gospel side, 
in a recess of the wall, are the ashes of San Buenaventura's 
other famous Padre, Vicente de Santa Maria. He was one of 
the Mission's ministros fundadores, officiating when the cross 
was first planted there; and here was his home until, in 1806, 
he left it for a heavenly. One of the best-hearted of men, his 
naive character is well illustrated in an accovmt which Vancou- 
ver has left us, and which forms the basis of the following 
story. 



(§■ 



^§e CaCifovnia ^abr^ifl^ 
II 

The Memorable Voyage of Padre Vicente 

THING that often impresses one, in reading the accounts 
of old voyages and explorations, is the fine faculty 
which, as a rule, the narrators have for telling a story. This 
is especially the case with sailors, who, though not trained 
to dabble with pens and ink, yet have a most telling and 
graphic way of spinning a yarn, giving the reader a lifehke 
impression of seeing the whole thing going on, as in our 
modern cinematograph shows. 

The log of the Discovery, in which Vancouver made his 
eventful voyage, is a case in point. It makes fascinating 
reading, and from the explorer's diary we get some valuable 
glimpses of California hfe in the last years of the eighteenth 
century. In recounting one experience which he relates, I 
find it natural to set it down as a kind of "moving picture," 
since that is the impression I had in reading his narrative. 

On the morning of the 17th of November, 1793, His Bri- 
tannic Majesty's Ship Discovery, three years out from Fal- 
mouth, in Cornwall, England, lies idle on the blue waters of 
Santa Barbara Bay. She is taking a little rest, as well she 
might; but it is only partial rest, for her boats are plying to 
and from the shore on the necessary business of laying in stores 
of fresh water, wood, and provisions, before it shall be again 
Westward ho! for Owyhee, the Carolinas, or some other Umbo 
of the Little Known. 

For the provisions, thanks are being paid with sailor hearti- 
ness by Captain George Vancouver, commander of the said 
ship, to Fray Vicente de Santa Maria, priest in charge of the 
Mission of San Buenaventura, thirty miles down the coast. 

144 



And the thanks are well deserved, for the good friar has 
marched up here from his post with a band of his faithful In- 
dians, convoying a supply train of no less than twenty mules 
loaded with fruits and vegetables, besides half a score of fat 
sheep. It is a notable example of Franciscan bounty to trav- 
elers, and those travelers, moreover, not even sons of Holy 
Church, but heretic English. So in the name of His Majesty 
George III, as well as for himself, his officers, and men, the 
gallant captain handsomely acknowledges the valuable gift, 
adding that he wishes he could be of some service to the 
hospitable Padre in way of return. 

But Fray Vicente, son of courtly Spain, will hear of no re- 
turn. On the contrary, will not the Ilustre Capitan accom- 
pany him back to his Mission overland, in order better to 
point out to him and his colleague, Fray Francisco Dumetz, 
such other articles of provision as will be serviceable to the 
voyagers? This is capping the climax, and the captain retires 
from the unequal contest, regrets his inability to accede to 
a request with which it would give him the greatest pleasure 
to comply, and, by a happy thought, begs the friendly priest 
instead to favor him with his company as a passenger on the 
Discovery as far as San Buenaventura. To this the Father 
willingly agrees, and further, accepts an invitation to dine 
on board that evening, together with the commandant of 
the Presidio and a reverend brother, Fray Miguel, from the 
adjacent Mission. 

While the dinner party on shipboard progresses as cheer- 
fully as such functions should, ashore consternation reigns in 
the breasts of the Padre's Indian escort. The Padre has told 
them of his intention of returning to San Buenaventura in 
the ship of the white stranger. They have pleaded, urged, 
prayed, but alas! the Father will not listen. He has made 
light of their importunities, laughed at their fears, and is 

145 



€^t CaCifomia ^CKbxts 



even now at supper with the foreign captain. To-morrow 
the ship is to sail away, and that will certainly be the last 
they shall see of their beloved protector. The stranger is bad, 
for all strangers are bad. He means to carry the Padre off to 
some terrible distant land, no doubt to put him to teaching 
the white-skinned people, for such wonderful men as the 
Padre are rare. And that will be the end of the good way they 
have learned to love. No more, then, of the easy life — three 
times a day to go with their bowls to the pozolera and receive 
as much pozole or atole as they can eat; shirts and pantaloons 
when they need them, as if such things could be gathered 
from bushes as the women pick tunas; good medicine when 
they are sick; and as for work, nothing but to make a few 
adobes, or plough a little land for the grain, or learn from the 
Padre how to sing the music in church. No wonder that they 
gaze with mingled fear and anger at the ship out in the bay, 
and determine to make one more attempt to persuade the 
Father to abandon this mad, this fatal idea, when he comes 
ashore at night — if, indeed, he has not already been made 
away with; — and who knows even that? 

So they wait and watch, while the placid bay dims from 
blue to gray, and then to indistinguishable dusk in which the 
ship is lost to sight. At last their patience is cheered by the 
sight of lights shining across the water. At any rate, the ship 
is still there, and again they crouch upon the beach, their eyes 
fastened on the twinkling beams, while they mutter to one 
another their fears. 

Now one of the lights is moving, and the excitement grows. 
Is the ship sailing away, or is the Father really coming back 
to them? Yes, praise to all the saints! the Hght comes nearer; 
and soon the boat comes swinging in on a wave, and four men 
jump out and hold her. The commandant and then Father 
Miguel are helped ashore, and in another moment the be- 

146 



loved Father Vicente is engulfed in the affectionate demon- 
strations of his devoted bodyguard, to the huge deUght of the 
jolly tars looking on. 

But the joy of the simple natives is soon dashed. One would 
think that, safe on land again, the Padre would abandon his 
purpose, but it is not so. All the way up to the Mission at the 
back of the town, the anxious escort wrestles with their fated 
Padre, but when he leaves them at the Mission door his deter- 
mination is unchanged. 

It is a gloomy group that surrounds the smiling Father 
Vicente as next morning he goes down to the shore, ready for 
the fateful voyage; and great is the emulation for the sad 
privilege of carrying the personal effects he is taking with 
him. Chief among these are two huge books, his Bible and 
Breviary, "spiritual comforts," as Captain Vancouver very 
properly calls them, without which the Father ventures no- 
where. They are his riches, his hourly dependence, to be ab- 
sent from which is instant anxiety and grief, though the good 
priest is ordinarily one of the blithest of men. These, then, 
are entrusted to Ambrosio, the Father's personal servant and 
the leader of the band, while others carry articles of less ex- 
ceeding value. As they approach the beach, their last hope, 
that some good fate would yet interfere to prevent his going, 
is crushed. Alas ! Fate, in the shape of dreaded boat and crew, 
is already waiting on the shore. Nothing remains but to kiss 
for the last time the Padre's hand, to receive for the last time 
his blessing, and to promise to obey his last command and 
take their melancholy way back to San Buenaventura Mis- 
sion, there to await the misguided Father who, they know 
full well, will never appear. Little need is there, they think, 
to hurry, as he has told them to do. Yes, the captain has 
told the Father that with a good wind he may be at the 
Mission before night. Not for a moment do they believe 

147 



€^t CaCtfotrnia Qpabte^ 



it, but the Padre has told them to hurry, and hurry they 
will. 

So they see the Padre helped into the boat with his belong- 
ings, Bible and Breviary most in evidence. The jaunty mid- 
shipman takes his seat at the tiller, the sailors shove off on a 
propitious wave, there is a groan from the watching Indians, 
and the rash Father Vicente is rapidly wafted from them. 
With "one longing, lingering look behind" they turn away, 
and trail off at a trot that will hardly be broken until they 
reach the door of their Mission at San Buenaventura. 

As it happens, the Indians are halfway to their destination 
before the ship gets wind enough to fill her sails. But the 
time passes pleasantly on board, for Fray Vicente has been 
a bit of a sailor himself, as it turns out, and is delighted with 
his present surroundings. Not only did he make the voyage 
in his youth from Spain to Mexico, — a voyage of more weeks 
then than it now is of days, — but later he was chaplain on 
the frigate San Carlos when, in 1775, she sailed up this coast 
from San Bias and gained the distinction of being the first 
vessel of size to enter the Bay of San Francisco. So in the 
comfortable cabin, priest and sailor spin the time into yarns 
until a breeze comes up, and the ship begins to ripple down 
the quiet channel. Then there is interest enough in noting 
the fine stretch of coast that slides past, with the islands hazy 
in the offing; and the vivacious Padre has incidents to relate 
of this point, or that creek, or some other cove, all of them 
with mouth-filling, ecclesiastical names. "It seems to me," 
says Captain Vancouver, with a smile, " that you good friars 
who have come to live in this outlandish place for the sake of 
Holy Church might fairly give your own names to some of 
these spots. What do you say — shall I use my rights as an 
explorer, and on the new chart that I am preparing put down 
a Cape Vicente for you, my reverend friend? That is little 

148 



enough in return for the solid benefits you have been shower- 
ing upon us. Let me see — Point Vicente will do very well 
for that unnamed cape at the beginning of the Bay of San 
Pedro ; and there is another point near there that I shall name 
in compliment to your confrere, too. . . . By-the-by, I fear 
he must be deprived of your company for to-night, after all, 
for it will be dark before we drop anchor, and you tell me the 
surf is bad for landing. You shall try sleeping in a sailor's 
berth once more to-night, and to-morrow we will give you 
back to Father Dumetz and your bereaved Indians. No 
doubt they will be in ecstasies to find you safe and sound, 
after all their affectionate terrors." 

Long before the early winter night settles down, Ambrosio 
and his trusty men are posted on the hill behind the Mission 
at San Buenaventura, hoping against hope for the appear- 
ance of the vessel. As time goes on, and no ship comes in 
sight, their fears are confirmed. Yes, the Padre is gone, 
stolen from them by the treacherous strangers. Why did 
they not keep him by force from going on the boat? And with 
heavy looks and proportionate sighs they leave the place 
when it is too dark to see, and return to their huts at the 
Mission. 

But the faithful heart of Ambrosio has not totally lost hope, 
and at daybreak he climbs up the hill to scan the sea once 
more. A wonder! a miracle! blessed be all the saints, the ship 
is there; and his quick eyes seem to see a bustle on board as 
if they were getting ready to launch a small boat to come 
ashore. Down he runs with this most joyful news, and soon 
he and a score more natives are on the beach ready to laimch 
their canoes and make for the boat when it appears. 

Snug as Father Vicente has been in his comfortable quarters, 
he is eager to get ashore and hear how things have been going 
in his absence: so after an early breakfast the captain, anx- 

149 



Z^t CaCifoma ^abre^ 



ious to gratify his reverend friend, orders out the boat, and 
they start for the shore, the Padre, you may be sure, tightly 
clasping his '' spiritual comforts." As they approach the 
beach, the surf is seen to be dangerously high, and with much 
regret the captain informs the good priest that they cannot 
make a landing until it subsides. This is a disappointment, 
but the Padre, as we have seen, is a cheerful soul, and philo- 
sophical withal, so as the men row to and fro outside the line 
of breakers, he chatters away as lively as ever. 

But no such thing as a little surf can keep the Indians from 
their Padre, now that he is so nearly restored to them. Three 
or four canoes are launched, skillfully shoot the surf, and 
cluster about the ship's boat. Our captain finds much that is 
comic, no doubt, in the childlike delight of the Indians, but 
with all his eye for a humorous episode, he finds the scene 
really touching, and gains added respect both for the pastor 
who has so endeared himself, and for the unhopeful-looking 
but responsive flock. Now it appears that Fray Dumetz has 
again been busy in good works, for the Indians report that 
there are on the beach several boat-loads of provisions wait- 
ing to be transported to the ship. "Your port of San Buena- 
ventura is happily named, my dear Father," says the polite 
captain. "You and your colleague have made it Saint Good 
Fortune to us in good earnest." 

Noon comes, and there is no sign of the surf abating. The 
genial Padre seems depressed, and no wonder, for whose 
spirits are proof against persistent disappointment? He is 
human, and moreover, he is hungry. He had hoped by this 
time to be enjoying the little feast that Fray Dumetz will no 
doubt have prepared for him and the English captain. The 
Indians have been busy bringing off the provisions for the 
ship, and when they solicit him now to come ashore with 
them in one of the canoes, he is half incHned to risk it. Am- 

150 



brosio, alongside, is importunate : he can take the Padre safely- 
through the surf, he says; there will be a httle wetting, but not 
much. Ah, but there are the books: clothes can be dried and 
be no worse, but the books are large, and as precious as large, 
and once wetted they will be unsightly forever, and he is 
afraid he cannot thoroughly shelter them from the spray that 
drenches the small canoes as they pass the breakers. " Give 
me the books, Padre," says Ambrosio; "I will take care and 
not get them wet. See, I will put them so, and cover them 
up, and they will be quite safe. I will take them to the beach 
and put them in a dry place, and come back for you." Shall 
he do it? He thinks of the books, and says No; but then he 
thinks of the dinner, and feels horribly hungry, and says 
Yes. With anxious brow and many solemn adjurations of 
care, he passes the books into the canoe, and, not without a 
qualm, sees the treasured volumes pass beyond his reach. 

The Indians had said that the surf would go down as the 
day went on, but so far from calming, the wind suddenly 
freshens, and the surf accordingly increases. As they watch 
for Ambrosio's return, they see two or three of the canoes 
capsize in the breakers, though without the loss of any hves, 
thanks to the proficiency of the Indians in righting them and 
clambering in. Under these circumstances, Ambrosio would 
probably not return, and moreover, the captain guesses, from 
the increasing seriousness of his companion, that the prospect 
of capsizing is a disagreeable one to him. In fact, when he 
slyly asks whether the Father still thinks of going ashore in 
a canoe, the shudder that replies settles the matter. So the 
idea of getting ashore that day is given up, and orders are 
given to pull back to the vessel. 

It is a glum Padre, indeed, whom the captain plies with 
cheerful conversation in the hope of lessening his disappoint- 
ment, and the worthy priest's spirits take a further drop when 

151 



^^t Cafifotnia ^cibUB 



he suddenly remembers his books! — those dear volumes, so 
necessary to his peace of mind, from which he ought never to 
have parted. He is parted from them now, with a vengeance! 
But even while he mourns over this last and worst depriva- 
tion, a more urgent catastrophe swoops down upon him : the 
boat is found to be leaking seriously, and they are in danger of 
sinking, and it is a full half league to the ship. At this, the 
poor Father's cup of misery overflows. Cold, hungry, home- 
less, bereft of his darling books, and now in momentary danger 
of drowning — maledicite! surely such a concourse of calami- 
ties never before fell to the lot of mortal friar ! And though the 
cause of the leak — a displaced plug — is soon found and this 
particular trouble remedied, he remains sunk in a dejection 
which is not lightened when he observes that his companions 
in the boat are having difficulty in hiding their mirth at his 
rueful countenance. 

In due course they arrive safely on board, but the Padre is 
still submerged, and the captain cannot help suspecting that 
he is repenting heartily that he did not listen to his Indians 
and accompany them home by land. Even dinner does not 
Hf t him out of the dumps, and the hospitable sailor finds the 
contrast quite painful between the jollity of the good friar on 
the Santa Barbara occasion and his present sighful silence. 
The sorest point of his distress is ever, the books. Mariner 
deprived of chart and compass would not be more helpless and 
forlorn than is poor Fray Vicente without his "spiritual com- 
forts," and the captain devoutly hopes that the morning will 
permit him to put his melancholy passenger ashore. 

But, a knock at the cabin door, and enter a cabin-boy with 
the word that an Indian is here who says that he must in- 
stantly speak to the Padre: and over the grinning youngster's 
shoulder, behold! the solemn, dusky face of Ambrosio the 
faithful. "I have brought them, Padre," he says, holding up 

JS2 



a large bundle, "and they are not wet, no, not a drop, as I 
said." Now, blessings on thee, Ambrosio, who knowest so 
well the Padre's little weakness! Alcalde thou art, and, for 
this, mayordomo thou shalt be ! Finding that the Padre could 
not land, he has come out to the ship, a full league from 
shore, to bring back the treasures for which he knew the 
Father would be pining. 

All now is well, and smiles again blossom on the ingenuous 
Padre's face. With eager fingers he unwraps the priceless 
books: fair as ever they show to his delighted eyes: not a spot 
of water has reached them in their double journey through 
the surf, thanks to the invaluable Ambrosio. The Father 
feels that he must give vent to his joy, and begs to be excused 
if he retires for a few minutes to his cabin. For an hour he is 
closeted alone with the recovered wanderers, and when he 
reappears he is once more the genial, even jocund. Father 
Vicente that won the captain's heart at Santa Barbara. 

Hardly is breakfast over next morning before the Indians 
are alongside, bringing word that the surf has gone down and 
that all is propitious for a landing. The boat is manned, and 
they enter, the captain, the mercurial Padre, and, needless 
to say, the Bible and the Breviary. " Give way smartly, my 
lads," is the word, and with their escort of canoes they make 
for land. A dash through the spray, and all are safe ashore. 
Then what a shout goes up from the waiting Indians! The 
Padre is safe with them again: pozole and atole, shirts, skirts, 
and pantaloons are safe too: alabanzas to all the saints (it 
is no wonder if, since garbanzas — peas — and alabanzas — 
praises — sound so much alike, the saints sometimes get one 
and sometimes the other; but it is all the same, anyhow): 
and from all sides they come running, seizing and kissing 
his hands, or, since he has but two hands, his habit or his 
hood, and asking a thousand childlike questions, to which 

153 



^$e Cafifotma ^(xW& 



the beaming Father replies, to the captain's admiration, in 
their own barbarous tongue. Ambrosio, once more entrusted 
with the books now that the Padre can keep his eye on them, 
does his best to curb the unruly demonstrations, but he is too 
much in sympathy with them to be severe, and the riot goes 
on. 

The captain is in full sympathy, too, and enjoys the lively 
scene as much as any one. He wears full uniform, in honor of 
the occasion and the dinner that is to come, and had thought 
that, as the stranger captain, he should be a mark for curios- 
ity. But the Padre is all, and the captain's part is only to 
share in the general ovation, and admire the benevolent char- 
acter of this worthy priest as the noisy procession makes its 
way to the Mission. 



SANTA BARBARA 




Mission Santa Barbara, and of Padre Repoll 
Who Built It 

5 ROM San Buenaventura one may follow the beach either 
by private conveyance or railway thirty-two miles to 
Santa Barbara. For twenty, the way is a sandy strip between 
precipitous mountains and the deep sea, and the Portola 
expedition was two days emerging from it into the more Hb- 
eral landscape of what is now the eastern approach to Santa 
Barbara. To the delighted eyes of the travelers, sick of sea 
and sand, this country seemed ideal for a Mission — populous 
with Indians for six leagues around and possessed of a soil of 
such fertility as to insure rich crops; and honest Costanso, the 
engineer, who, as well as Padre Crespi, made a written report 
of the trip, was moved to state: "The same we will say in the 
mystical sense; because the docility of this people gave us 
great hope that the word of God would be equally fruitful in 
their hearts." 

Nevertheless, many years came and went before the Mis- 
sion, which it was decided should be dedicated to St. Barbara, 
Virgin and Martyr, was established in this region. Not till 
December 4, 1786, the feast-day of the girl-saint, and over 
two years after the death of Serra, was the cross at last raised 
and the ground blessed for it. The spot chosen was at a place 
which the Spaniards called "El Pedregoso," "the stony," 
and the church first built was very different from the present 
noble edifice. It was a little adobe chapel, thirty-eight feet by 
fourteen, with walls a yard thick and a roof of beams on which 

157 



reeds were tied, supporting a layer of mud and a straw thatch. 
Close to the church were the Padre's house, the kitchen, the 
servants' quarters, a monjerio for the neophyte girls, and a 
storeroom — all of the same architectural clay with the 
church. 

As baptisms went on, larger accommodations had to be 
provided, and one church building followed another until the 
present, which is the fourth and was begun in 1815, the earth- 
quakes of 181 2 having damaged its immediate predecessor 
beyond repair. Five years were consumed in its construction, 
and, when completed in 1820, triple brass could hardly have 
made it stronger. Its walls, nearly six feet through, are of 
sandstone blocks and are supported, sides and angles, by huge 
stone buttresses. Some of the timbers used, Bancroft states, 
were brought from Santa Cruz Island in the Yankee schooner 
Traveler, Captain James Smith Wilcox. 

That Captain Wilcox was somewhat of a character in Mis- 
sion days. He was a quaint figure, apparently of the real 
Uncle Sam type— long, lean, and lanky, and, on state occa- 
sions, sported a black swallow-tail coat, a high beaver hat 
long of nap, and a red bandanna. The Californians formed a 
great liking for him: called him Don Santiago and translated 
his schooner's name into El Caminante. For years he traded 
up and down the coast from Sitka to San Bias, making himself 
comfortably useful to Missions and Presidios alike, and even 
taking a hand in politics to an extent that more than once 
brought him into colHsion with this faction or that. His chief 
title to fame, however, lies in his having nearly spoiled Cali- 
fornia's most cherished romance; for, falling in love with 
Dona Concepcion Argiiello, he pressed his suit with such 
ardor (in claw-hammer, his furry beaver stuffed with the red 
bandanna beside him as he knelt, one wonders?) that he all 
but got her. The lady, however, managed to keep her heart, 

158 



and beat a temporary retreat to Mexico. Just how Don 
Santiago took his mitten I do not find recorded; but, as he 
turned up again in politics, he probably bore his rebuff with 
philosophic resignation. 

To Padre Antonio RipoU the honor belongs — and it is no 
mean one — of directing the building of the really fine piece ^ 
of architecture which we now know as the Mission Santa \ 
Barbara. This friar was a Mallorcan, from Serra's own town 
of Palma, and was a dominant figure at Santa Barbara from 
1815 to 1828. He was that joyous sort of character that does 
with its might whatever it begins. His especial interest seems 
to have been to improve the Mission's temporalities, and it is 
a matter of history that he left it more imposingly housed 
than he found it, and the neophytes clad in better cloth than 
had ever been spun there before. He was, moreover, exceed- 
ingly tender-hearted, as I glean from the grudging Bancroft. 
At the time of the Purisima uprising of 1824 (whereof more 
later), in which the Santa Barbara neophytes joined, Padre 
Antonio could not eat his midday broth for anxiety, lest some 
of his dusky children, who were busy letting fly their arrows 
from the Mission corridors at the soldiers of the guard, should 
be killed by the latter's musketry. As for the soldiers, doubt- 
less he thought getting killed was their natural way of dying; 
but shooting neophytes was simple murder. A few were in 
fact shot, and the rest took to the hills, carrying with them 
such goods as they could lay their hands on, but refraining 
from touching anything in the church. This evidence of re- 
spect for religion was worked to good purpose by the politic 
Padre, and he succeeded in securing from the Governor a 
general pardon for the rebels who then returned meekly 
enough to resume their Hfe as mansos, as though nothing had 
happened. 

At the time of the piratical Bouchard's descent upon the 

159 



t^^t CaCifovnia ^abxts 

California coast in 1818, Padre RipoU rivaled Fray Luis of 
San Luis Obispo in military ardor — organizing at his Mission 
a gallant band of one hundred and eighty picked neophytes 
for service against the enemy. One hundred were armed with 
bows, fifty with machetes, and thirty with lances, and were 
enrolled under the splendid title La Compania de Urbanos 
Realistas de Santa Barbara. These urban Royalists never got 
into action, but their doting capitan frailer considered them 
sin par for bravery and loyalty. Still, he prudently kept their 
weapons under lock and key after drilling hours. Ripoll was 
an ardent royalist and not backward about saying so. After 
the attainment of Mexican independence, times became 
harder and harder for him, as for all those of the old order; 
and finally in 1828 he slipped away in tears on an American 
brig that had touched at Santa Barbara. A few years later he 
was heard of in his native Mallorca, where doubtless he ended 
his days. It is worthy of note that a considerable proportion 
of the Spanish Franciscans in California were Catalonians 
(Mallorcans being of the same stock) — a fact, I think, which 
helps account for the wonderful achievement of the move- 
ment. Europe holds no sturdier, honester people than the 
Catalans, who, as a race, have long been noted for their mor- 
ality, industry, resourcefulness, and quickness of wit. Add to 
these sterling qualities a sound eighteenth-century education 
and an endowment of Christian grace, and you have the 
measure of the men who made the California Missions. 

The Mission is to Santa Barbara what St. Peter's is to 
Rome. In old times when travelers more often came by sea 
than by land, the Mission's commanding site above the rather 
aristocratic little pueblo whose life was closely bound with its, 
made a notable landmark. Monsieur Duhaut-Cilly in 1827 
compared it, indeed, to a mediaeval castle in its stateliness. 
To-day, when the city has grown aroimd it, it stands out less 

160 



anb t^txt (VUt05ion0 



conspicuously; but it is just as dear to modern Santa Barbar- 
enos as it was to the old generation. Every tourist visits it, 
and in consequence an accepted part of the day's work with 
the good-natured Brotherhood who inhabit it is to show it off 
to visitors. 

You alight from the little trolley car at the foot of a gentle 
knoll on which the gray old building stands, and shortly you 
mount the steps into the roomy corridor whence Padre 
Ripoll's neophytes in the shelter of the pillars shot at the sol- 
diers. You touch the bell, and an alert Brother appears in the 
brown gown and white cord of the modern Franciscan; and, if 
there is but one of you, he finds himself apologetically busy for 
a few moments, being sure of more arrivals by the next car, or 
sooner. Then, when a suitable number has gathered, he takes 
you the rounds, exuding history as he goes. First, there is the 
church interior to see, with its Indian mural decorations, 
highly approved by Padre Suiier on their completion in 1820 
as "all agreeable, strong and neat," and of late retinted into 
aboriginal floridness ; and there is the fine altarpiece of carved 
wood, done by one of the present-day Brothers. Then there is 
the flowery, shady cemetery into which you go by a side door 
from the church, and where I forget how many thousand 
Indians are buried in unmarked graves, as well as numerous 
of the gente de razon of former days. Their mossy tombs bear 
many a name famous in California history. Then up the worn 
steps of one of the twin towers you are sent for a view of the 
world, and a beautiful world you find it, from among the bells; 
and so down again and across the corridor into the museum 
rooms where you may inspect all sorts of Mission curios, from 
Indian mortars to rawhide beds and portraits of saints who, 
you hope, were more beautiful within than the pictures would 
have them seem without. Somewhere in this round you may 
have had a glimpse of the Padres' trim patio garden, where, 

161 



^i)t CaCifotnia ^ixbttB 

"held in holy passion still," the Brothers doubtless resort to 
meditate in the cool of the day; but admission to this is denied 
to visitors. In the reception room, where you are invited to 
register your name, you may buy, if you like, a rosary of 
Job's- tear seeds, grown in the Mission garden, and drop a coin 
(or not — it is as you please, but I am assuming you are not a 
screw) into the Brother's palm. Then, seeing the light good in 
the corridor, you ask if photographing is permitted and learn 
to your delight that it is, and the Brother — fine fellow that 
he is — has no earthly objection to standing in the picture. 
Like Santa Barbara Mission? Of course you do. 

After the first formal visit to a place of tourist resort, I find, 
it suits my vagabond spirit to go again and browse around 
for unadvertised matters. So, while in Santa Barbara, I went 
back one morning to the Mission and spent an hour on a 
shady bench near the fountain, watching people come and go. 

Every car brings somebody, generally tourists, but here 
are two nuns getting out to pass into the church to their de- 
votions. Sometimes the tourists are serious, gentlemanly 
and ladylike folk whose red Baedekers show them to be con- 
scientiously doing California. At times they are under the 
wing of a resident who sedulously sees that all of interest is 
noted — the great trough of solid masonry below the foun- 
tain, where the Indian women did their laundry work; and, 
of course, the old fountain itself with its stone standard 
adorned with delightful scrolls and fiutings and convention- 
ahzed leaves, arising from an octagonal basin, which was 
much more beautiful before some latter-day rage for neatness 
inspired the application of a sleek plaster of cement to it. The 
stately towers, too, are to be admired, and the dignified pil- 
astered facade upon which the three Christian graces. Faith, 
Hope, and Charity, perch in effigy. Quite often the visitors 

162 




<; 
< 

P3 

« 

< 

H 

< 

en 

Z 
O 



anb t^txx QUi00ioni( 



are in a hurry to catch the next car back; and sometimes won- 
derfully ignorant. Here comes a young lady, for instance, chew- 
ing gum. I fancy she is on her wedding tour with the strip- 
Hng who has grabbed her arm and is pushing her up the slope. 

'' Gee, ain't it an old place ! " she exclaims in open-eyed sur- 
prise. 

Two men, smoking pipes, are the next to pass me, and I 
catch the following : — 

ist Gent.: There ain't any of the old Padres alive now, are 
there? 

2nd Gent.: Lord, no! why, man, if they were, they'd be 
three hundred years old. 

ist Gent.: I mean, any of the last bunch — since the war, 
you know. The country's only been civilized since the war, 
ain't it? Full of bushwackers before, was n't it? 

In the lull between tourists, the sound of childish merri- 
ment came intermittently, to my surprise, from an open win- 
dow in the Mission, and curiosity impelled me to transfer my 
seat to a bench in the corridor. In one of the rooms, it seems, 
a catechetical school for boys is conducted on Saturdays by 
one of the Brothers. There were twenty -five or thirty of the 
little lads there that morning, and the Brother in charge cer- 
tainly knew his business. Their bright faces were riveted on 
his and he seemed completely to command their interest. I 
do not now remember where the joke came in, but every now 
and then a shout of laughter would go up from those jolly 
young throats. It is a fine art to turn theology into a fiesta! 
By and by, the assemblage broke up, and the boys clattered 
down the corridor and across the plaza to the old fountain. 
There they balanced themselves for a while on the edge at 
the risk of falling in, and, chattering like magpies, finally raced 
off homeward down the hill. 

163 



^^e CaCtfomia ^abtre^ 



It is a feature of the Santa Barbara Mission that it alone 
of all the California chain has never been without resident 
Franciscans from Serra's day to this. In 1842 the buildings 
became the official residence of the first Catholic Bishop of 
Cahfornia — Francisco Garcia Diego y Moreno, who had 
been a Franciscan friar. Since 1856 a Franciscan college for 
the propagation of the faith has been maintained on the Mis- 
sion property, and the convento houses a considerable Fran- 
ciscan community. The Fathers are occupied in preparing 
candidates for the priesthood, in preaching missions, and in 
visiting a few outside stations. In a windowless upper room 
shut out from the world's distractions, save as they may drop 
through a skyHght, Father Zephyrin Engelhardt, the learned 
historian of the Franciscans in California, has his abode. I 
caught sight of him one day on some errand bent, a quiet, 
scholarly figure in Franciscan habit and a black skull-cap. 
All the necessary labor of the community is done by Brothers 
of the order, some of whom the visitor is pretty sure to see 
working about the Mission grounds; and not infrequently 
has his sense of humor touched by the sight of them, their 
clerical persons in brown gowns, pitching hay or shoveHng 
dirt, their caputs topped the while with caps or straw hats. 
One whom I noticed wore a blue apron over his gown. Why 
not? Is not cleanliness akin to godhness? 

Of course, the Mission rancho lands which extended once 
from Carpinteria to Gaviota and across the sierra to the up- 
per waters of the Santa Ines River, were sequestrated long 
ago.^ Of the old vineyard and orchards, praised of old-time 
travelers, nothing remains, except perhaps a few olive trees, 
which as late as 1909, according to Mr. Walter A. Hawley in 

1 Before secularization, the lands of one Mission were, in a general way 
limited only by those of adjoining Missions. Here and there a parcel of land 
for a rancho was conveyed to some retired soldier or other servant of the king; 
but, as a rule, the Padres were opposed to private holding of land outside the 

164 



his interesting monograph, "Early Days of Santa Barbara," 
still lived in the grounds of certain modem residences and 
doubtless still do. The ancient reservoirs and aqueducts, by 
which the Mission's water supply was brought from the moun- 
tains, displayed a thoroughness and taste in construction 
worthy of the water-loving Moors of Spain. Part of the friars' 
work has become incorporated with the Santa Barbara muni- 
cipal system. One of the open aqueducts from the hills used 
to cross the road that now skirts the cemetery wall at the 
east of the church, and here, as late as a generation ago, In- 
dian women, a remnant of the former Mission flock, would 
come to wash clothes beside the waters running then abund- 
antly. You will know the spot by the presence to-day of two 
great sycamores, standing so close together that a board has 
been fitted between them to serve as a bench for wayfarers. 
The trees have a story to tell. 

One midsummer day in 1866, Father Joseph O'Keefe, then 
a young Franciscan Brother of the Mission community, had 
his kind heart touched by the sight of the patient women com- 
ing day after day to wash their linen under the broiling sun; 
for in those days the place was without shade of any sort. His 
sympathy being of the practical kind, he cut four large syca- 
more limbs from a neighboring tree and set them deep in the 
moist soil to furnish protection to those humble toilers in the 
sun. Of the four, two took root, and have grown to trees of 
generous spread — testimony-bearers to an act of simple 
kindness to the lowly, not unworthy, I think, of the seraphic 
Francis himself.'' 

pueblos. They claimed no ownership themselves in the Mission lands, but 
occupied them as trustees imder the crown, for the benefit of the Indians. 

^ Father O'Keefe has been for half a century a familiar figure in later Mis- 
sion history. Largely to his efforts is due the rehabilitation of Mission San 
Luis Rey, as a Franciscan establishment. He is the author of a monograph on 
the history of Santa Bdrbara Mission, to which I am indebted. 



^§e CaCifomia Qpabreis 
II 

Love in the Padres' Garden 

3T was five years since I had seen my old chum, Dick Trev- 
gern, back in Boston, while Mrs. Trevgern I had never 
seen at all. So when, last winter, I found myself at Santa 
Barbara, where they lived, one of the first things I did was 
to trace them in the telephone book and call up Dick. The 
result was an urgent invitation to dinner that evening. I was 
quite keen to meet my friend's wife, and all the more so, since 
Dick, who is one of the finest fellows in the world, is, or used 
to be, also one of the oldest-fashioned, and had seemed to be 
destined for bachelor joys; so I wondered what could be the 
special charms that had subjugated him. 

I found them as cozy as a married couple of two years' 
standing has a right to be, in a rose -embowered cottage on 
one of the hill streets near the Mission. Mrs. Trevgern I 
found to be a very pretty, vivacious, and in every way attrac- 
tive girl, — she was only twenty, — and as they were evi- 
dently very fond of each other I rejoiced at Dick's good sense 
and good fortune. It was a very jolly little dinner, and alto- 
gether as pleasant an evening as I have ever passed. At some 
indirect reference to the topic (it is hard to find a name for 
it that is agreeable to every one, but I will use a well-worn 
phrase) the emancipated woman, I had an opportunity of 
seeing that the lady clearly was of the afiirmative party, 
whereas I knew, from recollection of old times, and anyway 
because Dick was Dick, that his view on the question was a 
decided No. This raised an interesting little speculation in 
my mind, and when, about eleven o'clock^ Mrs. Trevgern de- 
clared that she was going to leave us two together for a good 

i66 



anb t^txx (JUi00ton« 



confabulation over old days, and retired for the night, I made 
some half-joking reference to the matter, and asked Dick how 
it happened that he, of all men, had chosen a wife out of the 
emancipation camp. 

"Oh, well," he replied, "she is a dear good girl" — I has- 
tened to say that I was sure of it — "and we have lots of fun 
out of our different ideas on little things like that. The odd 
thing is, though, that it was Kitty's fad for woman's rights 
and that sort of thing that is responsible for her being Mrs. 
Trevgern — I mean, that was what you might call the excit- 
ing cause. Pull your chair up to the fire and I'll tell you all 
about it. It was really quite a Joke. 

"No doubt it will be news to you that I used to know Kitty 
years ago, before either you or I came to California. All the 
time that you fellows were ragging me about being an old 
bachelor, I knew my own mind and meant to marry Kitty 
some day. I don't think you knew her people, the Draytons. 
They lived down at Quincy, close to us, and our families were 
old friends. At the time that I got this appointment out here 
she was only sixteen, but before I came away from Boston I 
told her I loved her, and that when I had got on my feet I was 
going to ask her to marry me. I did n't want her to promise 
then, for it did n't seem square to ask her; but I had a pretty 
good idea that she Hked me, and I figured that in two or three 
years I could be so placed that I might fairly ask her, and, 
as young as she was, she would hardly have fallen in love 
with any one else. After I came to California I wrote to her 
now and then, not often, and no spooning, you know, but 
just to keep myself in her mind; and she answered with good, 
sensible, newsy letters. 

" She was always a particularly bright girl, with a good idea 
of what was going on in the world and a mind of her own 
about it. In one of her letters she said she had been going to 

167 



^i)t CaCifovnia ^ci^xt& 



a set of lectures by some confounded Englishwoman, on The 
Woman of To-morrow, or the Day after To-morrow, or some- 
thing, and asked me what I thought about what she called 
Woman's Awakening. I dare say you remember how we used 
to argue all that stuff in our old Debating Club — did n't we 
just ! — and how I always got sat upon for being a back num- 
ber and not lining up with the hatchet brigade? Well, I had 
n't changed my mind — have n't yet, for that matter — but 
I did n't suppose she cared two hairpins about it, and I re- 
plied with some old joke or other, and let it go. From other 
letters, though, I soon saw that Kitty had got really keen on 
the suffrage business, and that she knew I was a heretic: but 
we both had sense enough not to let the subject get on the 
argumentative line. 

"It ran on that way until two years ago, and then her peo- 
ple came to spend the winter in California. In the early spring 
they came up to Santa Barbara, and I saw Kitty again. I 
had n't weakened at all in my loving her, and she was prettier 
than ever — almost as pretty as she is now, bless her. — Yes, 
I knew you'd think so, old man. — By that time I was doing 
quite well, and prospects were good enough so that I felt I 
could ask her to marry me. One day, on a drive round by 
Montecito, I asked her. She wouldn't promise: said she 
liked me as much as ever, and did n't care about any one else, 
but did n't think she ought to marry me, and so on. I could n't 
get her to say why for a long time, but at last it came out. 
Some one, that idiotic Englishwoman, I suppose, had put it 
into the dear girl's head that it was her duty not to ally her- 
self with 'a reactionary' (I think that was the word) and in 
this case that meant poor harmless me. I argued till I must 
have been blue in the face, but I could n't get her to give in: 
she says now that she thought she would make me give in. 
And so it had to stay, but my consolation was that I knew she 

i68 



really cared for me. It was just head against heart, and though 
I knew, as I said, that Kitty's head was as good as anybody's, 
I thought her heart was better yet. I told her, though, that I 
should n't let it rest like that for long. 

"A day or two later I had an engagement to go up with 
them to look at the Mission. One of the Fathers showed us 
through, a dozen or more people altogether, regular tourist 
style, and we had seen about everything there was, when 
some one asked if we could n't go into the sacred garden. You 
know what I mean? There 's a private garden that most peo- 
ple don't get to see, and which, as the story goes, no woman 
is allowed to enter. The priest said he was sorry, but it was 
only by special permission that any visitor saw that garden 
and that permission was never given for ladies to see it. Kitty 
pricked up her ears at that. 

'' 'Do you mean to say,' she said to me, as we walked on, 
'that there is a part of the Mission where men may go and 
women must n't?' 'I don't mean to say so,' I told her, but 
the Padre here does, and I'm afraid that settles it.' 'Indeed, 
it does n't,' she said. 'What does he mean? Is there some- 
thing horrid there that is not nice for women to see?' 'No,' 
I replied; 'it's nice enough, just a garden. They call it sacred, 
but I don't know why.' 'Oh, I see,' remarked ICitty, 'sacred 
from women, no doubt. That's just like these monks: they 
think this is the Middle Ages still. I suppose you think so too. 
You may go anywhere, because you are a man, but a woman 
is to be shut out of this and that — they 're sacred ! ' I could 
see she was pretty much excited, and I tried to calm her down. 
'Now, Kitty,' I said, 'you know very well that as far as I'm 
concerned there's nothing on earth that I want so much as 
for you and me to be together always and everywhere. Let 
them keep their old garden: anyway, if it's too sacred for you 
it would certainly kill me on the spot.' 'It's all very well 

169 



€^e CaCifomia ^CKbxt$ 



to make fun,' she returned, 'but it's the principle that has to 
be fought. It's absurd, it's — it's mediaeval! And you're 
mediseval too,' she wound up. 'Well,' I said, 'I always knew 
I was a bit old-fashioned, but I was never called a regular an- 
tique before.' That made her laugh, and we forgot all about 
the old garden till we got back to the house. 

"At least, I thought she had forgotten, but when I said 
good-bye she came with me to the door, and said, 'Dick, I'm 
going to see that garden at the Mission. It is n't that I care 
about the garden, but I do care about the principle. I 'm go- 
ing to get in somehow, and I want to know, will you help me? ' 
'My dear Kitty,' I answered, 'I'm your man: at least you 
know I want to be. The only thing is, how do you mean to do 
it?' 'That 's for you to arrange,' she said. 'You men think 
you can do things better than women, so here 's a chance to 
show what you can do.' 'Well,' I remarked, 'it looks like a 
burglar's job, and I've not done much in that line: but you 
know what I said, that I want to go everjrwhere you go, and 
if that means jail, I'm game.' She looked a bit serious when 
I talked about jail, for she thought I was in earnest: but she 
did n't back down, and I said I would see what plan I could 
think up. 

"I easily found out whereabout the garden was, and the 
only way I could see to get Kitty in there was by climbing 
over the wall some evening after dark. It was an adobe wall, 
and not very high. I could easily get over it myself, but for 
Kitty we ought to have a ladder. There was a bright httle 
Mexican chap I knew, whom I had met one day up by the 
Mission. He lived near there, and one day I had seen him 
haunting about and got him to pose in a picture. After that 
we'd had chats now and then. It occurred to me that Julio 
could find a short ladder and bring it to the place: and I had 
an idea — old-fashioned, you see, as usual — that he would 

170 



make a kind of chaperon, too, to save a little bit of the respec- 
tabilities. I told Kitty my plan, and she thought it was all 
right, jumped at it, in fact; so we set the time for two days 
after the next full moon. We figured that as it was sundown 
soon after five o'clock, we could do our wall-climbing when 
it got dark, say about half past six, before the moon came up. 
It would rise about seven, and we should have plenty of light 
to investigate the garden. Kitty did pretty much as she Hked 
at home, as regards being in or out, so all she would need to 
tell her people was that she was going to be with me that 
evening. 

"Well, I arranged it with Julio. He was a mischievous little 
rascal, and it looked like a good joke to him; and a couple of 
dollars was good pay for a joke. When the evening came, I 
called for Kitty about six o'clock. I had told her to dress in 
some kind of color that would not show too much by moon- 
light, so she had on a big gray cloak of her mother's that cov- 
ered her all up. It had a hood, too, so she did n't need a hat. 
For fim I had drawn a large placard, with 'Votes for Women' 
on it in big letters. I meant to tack it to a tree or something 
if I got a chance, but Kitty did n't know anything about 
this. 

"When we got to the place, Julio was therewith his ladder. 
It is very quiet round there at night, and there was not much 
danger of any one coming past. I got up first on the wall to 
make sure the coast was clear. There were lights shining from 
two or three windows, but no one was moving, so I beckoned 
Kitty to come, and she climbed up and sat on the wall while 
Julio came up. Then I quietly pulled up the ladder and low- 
ered it on the garden side. I went down first, and then 
Kitty. She was a bit excited, I could see, but as game as ever. 
I had told Julio to wait up on the wall by the ladder till we 
came back. 

171 



^Sft Cafifovnia ^a^xt$ 



"It was about seven o'clock and nearly moonrise when we 
started on our tour. I took Kitty's hand. She was rather 
trembly, but she said she meant to see everything there was 
in this precious garden. I did, too, now we were in. We went 
along a path by the wall and found a seat. There was no rea- 
son for hurrying, so we sat down to wait till the moon was up. 
It was certainly pretty — especially with Kitty there ; there 
were tall black cypresses, and cHmbing roses, and orange 
trees just coming into bloom ; and when the moonHght touched 
the old belfries, and there came the murmuring sound of chant- 
ing from some place within the Mission, Kitty whispered to 
me that the garden really was almost sacred, and I quite 
agreed with her. 

"After a few minutes we went on. The garden is laid out 
in beds of shrubs and flowers, with winding walks between. 
We kept in the shade as much as we could, as there were sev- 
eral windows that look on the garden, and some one might 
see us if we made ourselves conspicuous. But there were lots 
of trees, and we skirmished about from one to another and 
had no end of a good time. Kitty was enjojdng it immensely, 
and it did seem a pretty good joke to be dodging about in the 
old garden right under their noses, for we could see them now 
and then through the windows. We were standing under a 
big cypress that had been trimmed up to ten feet or so above 
the ground, when I remembered my placard. I unfolded it 
and showed it to Kitty, and then fixed it on the tree with 
thumb-tacks. Kitty was dancing about with joy at the plac- 
ard, and almost clapping her hands, but I made her stop for 
fear some one would hear her. 

"We had nearly been all round the garden, taking it easily, 
and sitting down now and then. We were laughing and joking 
under our breath, and I was thinking that this would be a 
good place to propose to her again; rather romantic, you 

172 



know, to pop the question under those circumstances. It was 
getting time to clear out, but we sat down again for a few 
minutes before we went. Kitty threw the cloak off, and in 
her white dress and by the moonlight in that old garden, she 
looked — well, you can imagine — no, you can't, though, no 
one could who did n't see her. So I up and told her all I 
wanted to say. The darling took it like an angel, but just out 
of mischief — I know, for she has said so herself since then — 
she hununed and hawed and began to talk about different 
points of view and stuff like that. Well, at that very moment, 
a door opened and a man, one of the priests, came out. We 
were sitting in the shadow, but the door was right opposite, 
and I suppose the bright light coming through the doorway 
shone on Kitty's white dress. Perhaps he heard us, too, for 
I guess we had forgotten about talking under our breath: I 
know I had. Anyhow, he spotted us. We saw him stop for a 
second and heard him say something to himself, and then he 
came right toward us. I saw we were in for it, so I caught 
Kitty by the hand and we ran. I heard the Father, or Brother 
or whatever they call themselves, coming after us : we could 
hear his skirts flapping about and I think he must have been 
a fat man from the way he puffed. 

"We were right at the other end of the garden from where 
the ladder was. Kitty is a good runner, and we had a good 
lead and were nearly there when suddenly Kitty almost 
stopped and exclaimed, in a horrified voice, 'The cloak, Dick! 
we ' ve left it behind, and it has mother 's name on it ! ' Whew ! 
that 's a bad mess, I thought. It must be got, that was cer- 
tain. 'You run on,' I told her, 'and get up the ladder. Do 
you see it?' 'Yes,' she said, 'but what about you?' 'I'm go- 
ing back for the cloak,' I answered. 'You get up the ladder 
and wait for me. I'll stop him following you. Quick, Kitty, 
hurry up! ' I watched her get to the ladder and then started 

173 



back. I did n't know just where the priest was, as we had lost 
him somewhere among the trees, but I ran back, got the 
cloak, and started again cautiously for the ladder. When I 
was halfway there I caught sight of him staring at the placard. 
I can't understand to this day why he had n't raised a racket. 
I think that placard must have hypnotized hun. Well, he 
saw me and called to me to stop. As he was between me and 
the place where the ladder was, I saw I could n't get past him, 
so I ran back to the other end of the garden again, and he 
came running after me. When he came to the door I saw him 
stop a moment and then go in, evidently to get help. That 
was my time. I sprinted back as fast as I could, for it was 
getting rather too interesting. Kitty was there all right, sit- 
ting on the wall, but I could n't see Julio nor any ladder. 
* Dick ! ' she called down to me, ' I ' ve let the ladder drop down 
on the other side. Can you get up without it? ' ' How on 
earth did you do that ? ' I asked. ' I was afraid that horrid 
monk might come along and see me, and take the ladder 
away to keep you from getting up,' Kitty said: 'so I pulled 
it up after me, and then it slipped and went down the other 
side.' 'Never mind,' I repHed, 'I can climb up: but where is 
Julio?' 'I have n't seen him,' she said: 'but never mind him, 
come along up.' 

"I threw the cloak up to her, and then jumped at the wall 
to clamber up. I caught the top all right, but the rotten adobe 
bricks came away, and I tumbled down with half a dozen of 
them on top of me, and in falling, by the worst kind of luck, 
I sprained my foot. I tried to get up, but found I could n't 
stand on the hurt foot. 'What's the matter, Dick?' asked 
Kitty. ' Sprained foot,' I said. 'I don't see how I'm going to 
climb up that wall now. I can't jump high enough with one 
foot, and the adobes would most likely come down again, any- 
how. Confound that imp, Julio! he would have saved all this 

174 



mess if he had done as I told him. I guess we 're trapped, I 
am, anyway.' 

"Every moment I expected to see the Mission people com- 
ing, and there was the chance of some one coming along the 
road, too, and finding Kitty playing Humpty-Dumpty. The 
poor little thing was nearly crying. ' Oh, Dick,' she said, ' does 
it hurt much? Oh, I know it must, and it's all my fault. 
What will they do to us, Dick?' 'Well,' I answered, 'they 
can't skin us and eat us, you know. I should n't mind about 
myself, only that it makes a fellow look like a fool. You ought 
to marry me now, Kitty, for no one else will,' I added, severely. 
'Don't you think so? ' 'Oh, I suppose so, Dick,' she said, half 
laughing and half crying, ' No one else will marry me, either, 
for that matter. I wonder you want to, after my getting you 
into this fix.' 'All right, darling,' I said: 'it's a bargain, mind. 
They have n't got us yet, anyhow,' I went on. 'Here they 
come, though,' as half a dozen petticoated figures issued 
from the door. I saw them go toward the other end of the gar- 
den, where I had last been seen, and begin searching about. 
'Now, Kitty,' I told her, 'when they come this way you just 
let yourself down the other side as far as you can, and then 
drop. You are lighter than I, and I think the bricks will hold. 
Then run home as quickly as you can, and lie low.' 'Dick,' 
the little trump replied, indignantly, 'do you suppose I'm 
going to run away and let you stand the blame? Do you think 
I 'm one of those putty kind of girls? ' I tried to argue with her 
but — well, you know what suffragists are; she wouldn't 
budge. 'Dick,' she exclaimed at last, 'what am I thinking of? 
I can drop down, as you said, and get the ladder over to you.' 
I 'd thought of that, of course, but I could n't stand the idea 
of her falling and perhaps getting hurt. 'You must n't do it, 
Kitty,' I declared. 'If you get hurt as well, we shall be in a 
worse hole than ever.' My mind was working like lightning, 

17s 



and suddenly I thought of the cloak. ' Kitty ' I said, ' throw 
the cloak down to me.' It was a good old-fashioned cloak, 
with yards and yards of stuff in it. I twisted it into a sort of 
rope, and then stood up against the wall on my good foot and 
threw the end over as far as I could. 'How far does it reach? ' 
I asked. 'Plenty far enough,' she answered. I did n't need to 
say any more. She took hold of it and let herself down, and 
I heard her drop to the ground. In another moment she was 
up on the wall and pulling the ladder after her. It made an 
awful row, and I saw some of the people stop and Hsten. It 
was touch and go then, I could see. Kitty lowered the ladder, 
and in half a jiffy I was up. As we were pulling the ladder up, 
they saw us and began to come on the run, but they were just 
about half a minute too late. I sent Kitty down and then 
scrambled down myself. Just then, along came that young 
scamp Julio, as innocent as you please. 'Take the ladder and 
run that way,' I ordered, * and let it drag so as to make lots of 
noise.' 

"Kitty was shaking all over, what with excitement and 
fright, and pity for my foot. We sat down against the wall and 
listened to the chaps inside calling us awful names in Spanish, 
Irish, German, and about everything else. My foot was pretty 
painful, and so swollen that I could hardly get my shoe off. 
Kitty produced a bandage from somewhere and bound the 
foot so as to keep it stiff, and then I got up and with the help 
of the wall and Kitty's arm I hobbled off with her in the oppo- 
site direction from that in which Julio had gone, while the 
sounds in the garden got fainter and fainter, showing that 
he was drawing the enemy's fire, as I expected. 

"Of course the thing got into the papers somehow, but 
luckily the names did n't, for Julio did n't get caught. And 
as you see, Kitty lived up to her bargain." 



Ci}(X^t^ (Vtine 

SANTA INES 




,-4s 



Mission Santa In^s, the Feast of all the Dead, 
AND Other Pertinent Matters 

A^VER La Cuesta de Santa Ines, as the old Spaniards called 
^^ the mountain range that looks down on martyred St. 
Barbara's Mission and town, three roads go by as many 
passes to the Santa Ines Valley. There, at the edge of a soli- 
tary region of vast cattle ranges, hay camps and primeval 
oaks, remote from railroads and the unrest of cities, stands the 
Mission of a sister Virgin and Martyr, St. Agnes. All three 
highways are exceedingly beautiful. Those by the passes of 
San Marcos and Gaviota are frequented by automobiles; but 
the third, which traverses the pass called Refugio, was for- 
bidden to motorists at the time of my pilgrimage, and I trust 
still is. In some respects it is the most picturesque of the 
three, and, though rough enough in places, is a joyous road to 
the pedestrian or the traveler with horses. Moreover, tradi- 
tion says it is the way the Padres followed, when they tripped 
it the forty miles between Santa Ines and Santa Barbara — 
a fact which decided me in its favor. Leaving the train at the 
flag station Oraya, I set briskly out, for a while skirting a little 
creek that flowed through lands once part of the famous 
Rancho de Nuestra Senora del Refugio, the scene of many an 
old-time smuggling adventure, and soon I was zigzagging up 
the sierra's flank. ^ 

^ Travelers who would be carried the entire distance to Mission Santa In6s 
leave the Southern Pacific train at Gaviota Station, whence a daily stage runs 
to Santa In6s; or the Pacific Coast Railway will take them to Los Olivos, where 
conveyance may be arranged for to the Mission, six miles. 

179 



€^t CaCifotnia ^a^t^0 

The sun was setting when I reached the Santa Ines River at 
the mountain's thither base, and wading it, shoes and stock- 
ings in hand, I came by and by to a plain rimmed about with 
treeless hills, and ahead the white walls of the Mission flashed 
me a welcome. I knew it was a welcome; for it was my good 
fortune to possess the friendship of the resident priest. He, 
whom all the countryside knows as Padre Alejandro, and his 
good niece have lived at Santa Ines for a dozen years. Loving 
the place for its past as well as for its opportunities for present 
service, they have restored the church and convento part, 
largely with their own hands, from a ruin to what is now the 
most homelike of the Missions. While it is nowadays essen- 
tially a parish church and rectory, ministering to an extended 
vicinage, Padre Alejandro with his warm heart has made it 
far more than a building. He has imbued it with something 
of the old Franciscan spirit and love of humanity, though 
himself no Franciscan, but of the secular clergy; and the reg- 
ister of good deeds, kept in heaven, holds note, you may be 
sure, of many a run-down wreck of a wanderer wound up and 
set going again by this kindly minister of Christ. 

The Mission buildings, in glistening white with roofs of red 
tile and a strip of flower garden before the corridored front, 
face the beautiful valley of the Santa Ines River, across which 
they look to the long reach of the oak-clad sierra. The sun 
had now set, and the eastern heights that crisp autumnal 
evening were pink with a sort of alpine glow, beneath drift- 
ing masses of fog wrack blown in from the ocean. Some thirty 
acres of church lands surround the Mission, preserving it in 
dignified isolation both from the little Protestant state of 
Denmark, called Solvang (a settlement of Danes who have 
lately taken up a tract of land across the way), and the dusty 
highroad that winds onward to Santa Ynez town, four miles 
beyond. 

i8o 



Historically, Santa Inez has cut no great figure that I can 
find, if we except its neophytes' participation in the redoubt- 
able Purisima rebellion which is coming in another chapter. 
Thirty- two years covered its missionhood; for its founding 
was not till 1804, and secularization overtook it in 1836. The 
earthquakes of el ano de los temblores paid their devoirs to 
Santa Ines and gave the church then standing so severe a 
shaking that it had to be rebuilt, and the present structure 
with its wide, shallow bell tower, dates from 181 7. This 
quaint campanario was partially destroyed by a winter 
storm three years ago, which brought down the top and with 
it the heavy bells. The restoring hand of Padre Alejandro is 
responsible for the addition of three windows that the old 
lacked, and for the solemnizing warning, if you read Latin, 
that now catches your eye on the east wall of the tower 
beneath the bells: Ex illis una tua erit.^ 

I passed through a wicket into the arcaded corridor, which 
chairs, a bench or two, roses clambering about the pillars, and 
a flowery array of potted plants had transformed into a de- 
hghtful outdoor hving-room. An open door led to a box-like 
vestibule within, at the end of which was a closed door and 
in it a little window such as ticket offices have. It, too, was 
closed. Above, in neat lettering, was another inscription in 
Latin which I managed to translate: — 

Guest, as to thy knocking my door 
opens to thee, so do thou open to 
God, knocking at thy heart. ^ 

A sermon, that, so universal in its appeal that any one — 
churchman or worldling — must, I thought, have owned it; 
and so I gently touched the bell. There was sound of foot- 

1 "Of these one will be thine": an allusion to the custom of tolling a church 
bell when a parishioner dies. 

"^ Hospes, pulsanti tibi se mea janua pandet, tu tua pulsanti pectore pande 
Deo. 

181 



€^t CaCifomia ^aW^ 



steps within and presently the little window slid back and 
the pleasant face of the Padre himself appeared in the open- 
ing. Then, flinging wide the door, he drew me in with such 
a welcome as one only gets at home. 

To the sentimental traveler, like myself, there is a touch of 
the poetic about sleeping in an old Mission. You feel your- 
self the guest of Clio — a lingerer in the courts of history and 
old romance. As a prelude to the night, the Father did me, 
after supper, a Liszt Rhapsodie and Lohengrin's "Lebewohl" 
on the pianola in his snug music-room, and then, lighting a 
candle, he conveyed me to the side of the convento facing on 
the inner court, where my chamber was — a room big enough 
for a conclave of cardinals. The high ceiling was supported 
by huge beams hewn by the Mission neophytes a century be- 
fore; and the massive adobe walls were five feet thick, if I may 
trust my notebook. They were pierced by a small door and 
one large, deep-seated window, giving on the inner arcade. 
As I lay in bed reviewing in dozy luxury the events of the day, 
I heard the voice of my kind host directed without in great 
earnestness to a dog, which had been barking intermittently 
in the yard. The Padre had thought the noise was disturbing 
me and he was explaining to the beast quite seriously the 
impropriety of such conduct. The argument appeared to 
reach the dog's sense of reason; for the barking was not re- 
sumed. I fell asleep, thinking of St. Francis and the wolf of 
Gubbio. 

I had come at an opportune time. The day after my arrival 
was November 2, All Souls' Day, when the ceremony of pray- 
ing at the graves in the old cemetery of the Mission would 
take place. This — La Fiesta de todos los Difuntos — takes on 
a special character at Santa Ines, because of the participa- 
tion of a sprinkling of Indians from a near-by reservation. 

There had been rain in the night and the morning broke 

182 



atib t^^x (TUi50tott0 



with lowering clouds, which brought despondency to the 
Father. 

" If it rains," said he, "not a soul will come, — not a soul;" 
and I knew he was right, for in California it is unwritten law 
that a rain cancels the solenmest engagement. 

However, before nine o'clock matters took a cheerful turn. 
The heavens lightened and the sun began to shine out of a 
sky that was all the lovelier for drifting squadrons of cumulus. 
There was to be high mass, and then the prayers at the graves. 
The campo santo, where the Mission Indians are buried five 
deep, had been burned over and raked the day before, to clear 
it of a year's accumulation of weeds and grasses; and now, as 
the hour approached and people began arriving in wagons, on 
horseback, or afoot, — none were in the automobile class, — 
their first business was to drift into the cemetery and seek 
out their people's graves, unmarked often save in their own 
faithful memories. Some brought flowers, and all set lighted 
candles about the mounds. Then, gathering in knots in the 
warm sunshine in front of the church, they rolled their tabacos 
and gossiped till the beU should ring for mass. Many came 
through the wicket into the sunny corridor to pay their re- 
spects to Padre. He, in his canonicals, received aU with a 
smiling face, a cordial handshake, and a joke or a word of 
kindly inquiry. 

"Que hay, Roberto, you fat rascal," said he to a chubby 
urchin whose cheek he pinched, "are mamma and Magdalena 
coming?" 

"No, Padre," replied the boy. 

"Not coming!" echoed the Padre. "I'm afraid they are 
malas cristianas, Roberto." 

" No malas cristianas, Padre," cried Roberto, stung into 
uncivil contradiction, "no bad Christians. They have n't any 
hats." 

183 



^^t CaCifomta ^abve^ 



The Padre, in the lulls of his receiving, would drop in my 
ear bits of his parishioners' personal history. They were plain 
folk, Spanish-speaking mostly, from the neighboring ranches, 
vaqueros, teamsters, and laborers, with their black-shawled 
wives and solemn-eyed babies, and a few Indians. 

"That Httle man over there with the pigeon toes," he whis- 
pered, "is one of our local characters. You wouldn't think 
from his light skin that he is an Indian, but he is — Indio 
legUimo — and proud of it, but a Peruvian. His name is 
Fernando, but we call him Fernandito, little Fernando, to dis- 
tinguish him from another Fernando who is a big fellow. He 
turned up here half a century ago. He only works when it 
suits him, but he is a decent fellow and welcome anywhere to 
a meal. As for sleeping, he camps under a tree if need be, d 
la belle etoile, and snores obliviously through a degree of cold 
and fog that would put you or me on crutches for the rest of 
time. ' The world is my home,' he says, ' and where I hang my 
sombrero is my house.' I once offered him permanent em- 
ployment here at the Mission, including a room to himself and 
board and lodging in return for light chores; but what do you 
think the rascal said? 'Padre,' drawing himself up to his full 
four foot eleven, 'I am an Indian, and I must be free!' He 
really knows a great deal about Mission days — and he has 
had a good voice in his day. I have him sing the mass when 
he is here. 

"Now, there's a different sort — that Indian talking to 
Fernandito," the Father went on. " He is a Yaqui, and, be- 
tween you and me, a hard citizen. I've done my best to get 
him to come to church, but he won't. 'Francisco,' I said to 
him one day on the road, 'why don't you come to church?' 
'Padre,' he replied, 'if I come to church I must do what you 
say, and Padre, I don't want to do that. My mamma, she says 
same as you, "Francisco, why don't you go to church?" and 

184 



anb t^^x QUiMoM 



I say to her, " Mamma, if I go to church, I must do what Padre 
tells me to do, and I 'm too young." Poco poco, cuando viejo 
— by and by when I'm old — but now, no, no, Padre.' So 
there the matter stands ; but somehow I like the rogue, he 's 
so honest about it. I only hope his poco poco won't prove to 
he jamas — never." 

The interior of the Santa Ines church has all the ancient 
flavor that we expect of a Mission, and many of the old-time 
furnishings are still used in the services. Among '_these I 
noticed a confessional box with Indian ornamentation of 
carved wood fastened upon the sides with wooden pegs; and 
an odd little image of the Virgin in a sort of Watteau shep- 
herdess hat, much dilapidated, and a full-bottomed skirt. 
There were candlesticks and other vessels in beaten silver 
and copper, particularly an exquisitely wrought silver dipper 
in the form of a half bivalvular shell. Metal-work, it seems, 
was a specialty of the Santa In6s neophytes, and utensils 
made there were often supplied to other Missions. 

I took my seat on a bench in the dim light near the door, 
the kneeling assemblage in front of me; and, brought up 
though I had been in another house of faith, I felt no hin- 
drance in joining these simple folk in their devotions. Through 
the small windows placed high in the walls the sunHght 
streamed in mellow shafts of blessing out of the common 
heaven of us all; and by and by from the old choir loft above 
me the beautiful notes of a Gregorian chant floated out. It 
was old Fernandito singing the music of the mass, and sing- 
ing it with dignity and feeling. He stood alone, this day, 
where in other days a choir of many with viol and flute had 
been wont to stand and raise praises to the same living Lord. 
His voice, still strong and melodious for all his age, — he 
must have been nearly eighty, — bridged for me the gulf of the 
years. I seemed to see at the altar not Padre Alejandro, but 

185 



^i}t CaCifotrnia ^cCbxtB 



another, — in gray gown and cord of the Brothers Minor, — 
perhaps that Fray Francisco Uria, who for half of Santa 
Ines's life as a Mission, was the strong arm of her outward 
estate — stout, jolly, warm-hearted, quick-tempered old 
Padre Uria. Or was it Father Arroyo de la Cuesta, he of the 
many tongues of whom we shall hear at San Juan Bautista? 
It was at Santa Ines that he entered into rest. His dust is 
still here buried before the altar, with that of six others of 
his order, as Padre Alejandro has found out and lovingly put 
a mark where none was before. One of these is Padre Ramon 
Abella. Poor Padre Ramon! He dwelt forty-four years in 
CaHfornia, outUving the Missions' golden age and partici- 
pating in their desolation. His last years were clouded with 
ill-health and loneliness, his harp turned to mourning. De 
Mofras, in 1841, found him at San Luis Obispo, sleeping on 
an ox hide, drinking from a horn, and dining on jerked meat. 
Whatever the charitable might send him, — little enough, 
you may be sure, — he shared with a few Indian children 
whose parents inhabited some of that Mission's decaying 
hovels. Amid the ruins of his Carthage he still talked of "go- 
ing to the conquest" (ir a la conquista), and bore uncomplain- 
ingly, as a true Franciscan, the humiliations and privations 
of his poverty. 

Mass concluded, the congregation formed in procession. 
They were headed by the Father in his robes and the altar 
boys in their scarlet and white, bearing high a silver cross and 
tall standards with flaring candles, and carrying censer and 
aspergill; and all marched chanting from the church around 
the corner to the cemetery. Here for an hour or more prayers 
were chanted at each lighted grave, the Father assisted by 
Fernandito. The latter, clad for the occasion in a new blouse 
of blue jeans and armed with a reading-glass to magnify the 
notes of his music-book, sang the responses and received, in a 

186 



basket hanging at his elbow, the fees for this rite. Silently the 
crowd followed the Padre, the men with bowed, impassive 
heads, the women sometimes sobbing. When the prayer at 
one grave was ended with the beseeching Kyrie Eleison, 
Christe Eleison, the incense scattered and the water sprinkled, 
the crowd moved to another. So the round was made, till, 
last of all, Fernandito, brushing the charred grass off two 
unmarked mounds where neither marker nor flowers nor 
candles were, said simply : — 

"Padre, these are friends of mine; this is Barbara, and this, 
Jose." 

And Barbara and Jose had their prayers, too, and doubtless 
will have every 2d of November while Fernandito lives. 

The Mission relics at Santa Ines are many and interesting. 
Besides those used in the present-day church services, and the 
beautiful old vestments that are in the sacristy, there is a 
considerable collection arranged for interested visitors in an 
interior room of the convento — a room formerly used as the 
loquorium, where daily, after dinner and after supper, the 
friars were at liberty to come to rest for an hour from their 
laboring and praying, and relax in human chat. 

The Father left me here one morning to browse and rumin- 
ate. The relics have been patiently got together from all sorts 
of places — from the cluttered corners of the Mission's ruins, 
from crumbling outhouses, from the earth of the surrounding 
fields as the plough turns it up, from the garrets of the coun- 
tryside, from city junk shops. There were beautiful old basins 
and cups and kettles of hammered copper; crucifixes of wood 
wonderfully and realistically carved, some with a cord, mean- 
ing the carver was a Franciscan; and there was a quaint 
wooden matraca, like a watchman's rattle, for use at the altar 
in Holy Week when bells are stilled. There were wooden 

187 



candlesticks with carved and painted ornamentations; and 
the famous ancient yellow umbrella of tattered silk which 
only Santa Ines has. There were great parchment books with 
manuscript church music, written by monkish hands now 
turned to dust; and there was a desk full of manuscript Mis- 
sion records bound in skin, the covers fastened with buckskin 
ties. On opening one of these, I was fascinated to find its 
title-page — done in the careful script of a day when leisure 
was no disgrace — read thus: — 



t 



Viva Jesus. 
Libro l** de Bautismos de la Mis" de La 
Purisima Concepcion de la SSma Virgen Maria, 
Madre de Dies y Senora Nuestra, fundada en la 
Vega del Rio Santa Rosa. 

It was the first book of baptisms of La Purisima Mission, 
saved from the wreck of that establishment. Each entry 
closed with the ministro's neat signature and rubrica — page 
after page testifying to Gentile Indians with names of incon- 
ceivable unpronounceability, made into good Christian Ro- 
bustianos, Saturninos, Apolonias, Zeferinas, and Odoxicos, 
to say nothing of the more commonplace Juans and Marias 
and Pablos. Turning these yellow parchments, I thought 
that the mere selection of baptismal names for a dusky family 
of a thousand or so, to whom the Padres stood in loco parentis, 
must in itself have been no small labor. The difl&culty was 
met, however, by a custom of giving the name of the saint of 
the day, or sometimes of one of the godparents. 

After all, I believe I found Fernandito the most interesting 
relic at Santa Ines. The Father introduced us one day, and in 

i88 



the sensible Spanish-American fashion, the old Indian re- 
peated his own name, Fernando Cardenas, as we shook hands. 
He delighted to talk of old times, and we sat together on a 
sunny bench in the corridor for an hour or two, he prattling 
of his own life, the hopes of his old age, and the days of the 
old Padres. His quick intelligence, the cultured method of 
expressing his ideas, his good English, the gentleness — al- 
most courtliness — of his manner, all betokened in this Peru- 
vian aborigine a development far in advance of the ordinary 
run of Indians as I had known them in California, or, indeed, 
anywhere. As a matter of fact, I soon saw that he felt him- 
self superior to the Calif ornios, though he was not above asso- 
ciating with them. Nevertheless, as he confided to me, he 
did not want to be buried with them in the cemetery at Santa 
Ines, but at the parish church in Santa Barbara. There were 
places there in the wall where one could be shelved to one's 
self, and sealed up. It seems he had lived with priests all his 
life, and had received his education from them. From Peru 
he had gone to Mexico, and thence to California, making 
sojourns at several of the southern Missions before casting 
anchor at Santa Ines in the fifties. That was, of course, after 
secularization, and the Franciscans had departed; but there 
were still living in the vicinity many hijos de la Mision — 
children of the Mission — from whom he had first-hand in- 
formation of the old ways. 

"This Feast of the Dead," said he, "used to be always at 
night. The candles were lighted in the cemetery at sundown 
and burned till morning. The church was kept open and the 
Indians crowded it all night, praying. All the Indians, even 
the Gentiles, believed the soul lives after a man dies — the 
Fathers did not have to teach them that — but they had some 
ideas about it the Fathers thought wrong. For one thing the 
Indians believed their souls emigrated and needed to be 

189 



^i}t CaCifovntct ^(Xbxt& 



helped on their journey; so, many things of value were buried 
in the graves — mortars, cooking utensils, beads, money, and 
so on. It was one of the Padre's hardest tasks to stop that. 

"But in time the Indians got to like the ways of the gente 
de razon best. Once I was at San Bernardino and some Gen- 
tile Indians — mountain Coahuillas — came to the priest 
there and said, 'We want to be Christians.' 'Why?' asked 
the priest. ' Because,' one old man answered who was spokes- 
man for them, 'we want to be buried up there' — pointing 
to where the Christian Indians had been buried in holy 
ground. Then he went on to tell how he had been taught at 
some Mission by the Padres, and he had taught those Coahu- 
illas what he could remember of Christian doctrine, partic- 
ularly the mystery of the Holy Trinity. 'That I taught in 
this way,' he explained. 'I take my blanket and fold it over 
in three folds. Now one fold is the Father, and one is the Son, 
and one is the Holy Spirit — three persons, see, but all one 
substance.'" 

Fernandito smiled at the memory, and started a fresh 
cigarette. 

"It was a good life in old California," he went on, "very 
different from the American way. It was a communism : not 
the French kind, but a true conmiunism, where every man's 
house was open to every traveler, and he could stay as long 
as he liked, and an offer to pay would have been an insult. 
As for the Missions, of course, they were always free-handed. 
When visitors were seen approaching, an Indian was sent to 
ring the church bell in a particular way that was a signal — 
one way if it was a Padre coming, another way if it was white 
travelers, another if it was Indians — and the neophytes all 
came from their work and showed themselves in front of the 
Mission. It would have been disrespectful to pass a Mission 
without stopping and partaking of the Padres' hospitality. 

190 



(inb i^dx (JUt00ion0 

The neophytes, of course, had all they could eat. Every Fri- 
day there was a great killing of cattle and sheep, and the 
rations for the coming week were distributed to the heads of 
families. Besides meat, there were beans and wheat and other 
things given out, too. Nobody went hungry then." 

l\hink that in this respect Fernandito regarded the present 
time as out of joint. Nevertheless, as he accepted the Padre's 
invitation to join us at dinner, he was evidently disposed to 
do what he could to revive the good old ways — was willing 
at least to play the guest's part. 



II 

Pasquala of Santa Ines 

^♦^HE Mission of Santa Ines is fortunate in having as its 
^^ present incumbent a man of taste and energy, by whom 
the old building and its past history, as well as its present 
affairs, are regarded as a sacred trust. The place in the church 
where the Indian girl, whom I have named Pasquala (her 
true name is not recorded) , is buried was made known to the 
Father by old Fernandito, who speaks from the first-hand 
resources of an Indian's wonderful memory. 

It was by chance that Pasquala's lot in childhood fell at 
Santa Ines. Her people were not of the Indians who lived in 
the region, but belonged to one of the several tribes of the 
interior valley who were classed together as Tularenos, — In- 
dians of the Tulare country. These tribes were " — still are, 
in fact, to some extent — in the habit of coming annually to 
the coast to gather shell-fish, and on one of these visits, the 
child becoming ill, her parents did not return with their peo- 
ple. They had heard of the cures performed by the priests at 
the Missions, and came to Santa Ines asking aid for the child, 
then about five years of age. The Father willingly gave help 
and medicine. He was a kindly man, who delighted in re- 
lieving distress, and in this case he was the more glad to be 
of service inasmuch as he hoped it might lead to a better feel- 
ing on the part of the Tularenos (for Kinyala, Pasquala's 
father, had told his tribe, and the Tularenos had long been 
known as the determined enemies of the Missions). 

The girl recovered quickly under the priest's care from the 

192 



childish malady that, left to the "practice" of the tribal 
medidne-man, might well have ended the little life. In grati- 
tude, Kinyala resolved to cast in his lot with the Indians of 
the Mission, and rejoiced the heart of the Father by volun- 
tarily accepting baptism, with his wife and child. So they 
were christened, Kinyala in the name of Gregorio, and his 
wife in that of Marta, while the child took the name of Pas- 
quala in place of the one she had borne. The Father had be- 
come fond of the girl, who was more teachable and responsive 
than the children of the coast Indians. "Pasquala," he said 
one day, putting his hand on her head, "do you know what 
your name means?" "No, Padre," murmured the child. 
"It means one who helps other people," he said (speaking 
in these simple terms in order to reach her childish under- 
standing); "and I gave it you because perhaps one of these 
days you may help your people to be good, like the others at 
the Mission." And though she understood little of his mean- 
ing she knew that somehow the Father expected more of her 
than of the other children, and in many little ways she tried to 
please him; and indeed succeeded well. 

When a year had passed Gregorio received a message. It 
was brought by his brother, and was from the chief and the 
head men of his tribe. They were on their way again to the 
coast, and were encamped a few miles from the Mission. The 
message was that Kinyala and his wife and the girl must re- 
join the tribe. They had learned that he had joined the In- 
dians of the Mission. That was not well. The priests were 
enemies of the Indians. They were like women, and had made 
the other Indians like women, working instead of hunting and 
fighting. Kinyala would become like a woman, too. Let him 
return to his own people, or suffer the consequences. 

The message disturbed Gregorio, and he spoke of it to the 
Father. To the latter, however, it meant little — a mere 

193 



€^t CaCifotma ^Cibu^ 



vague threat, not worth a serious thought. The consequences? 
Well, the consequences would be that Gregorio, by a few 
years' training at the Mission, would be fitted to lead his 
troublesome people into the better ways. Gregorio had been 
a man of influence in his tribe, the Father knew. It was, in- 
deed, providential that he had come under the Mission teach- 
ing, and it was not to be thought of that he should return, 
at least for the present, to his benighted people. So Gregorio 
remained at the Mission, and his people returned to their 
home without him. 

Another year passed, and the warning was renewed: this 
time not by word of mouth, but by a sign which Gregorio 
found one day placed on the floor of his house: a token com- 
posed of feathers, bones, and painted sticks, which he easily 
translated into a threat of death if he did not return to his 
people. The next year the token appeared again, and year 
after year it was placed there by some always unseen hand. 
But Gregorio had come to think little of it, telling himself that 
it was only the work of old Nau-kloo, the medicine-man, who 
had always been his enemy. He was angry because the child 
had been cured at the Mission, that was all. 

Meanwhile, Pasquala was growing into a slender, beautiful 
girl. She had always, by some innate force of disposition, 
taken a chief place among the children of her own age. It 
was always Pasquala who must say whose arrow had flown 
farthest, and Pasquala who must give the bright pebble, or 
the plume of blue-jay feathers, to the winner in every game. 
As she began to grow out of childhood she learned the simple 
arts taught to the girls at the Mission — to weave, to sew, 
and to perform the elementary household duties. Moreover, 
she had a quick ear, a good voice, and a natural love for 
music, so that she learned to sing the chants and other offices 
as she heard them in the church; and the Father, chancing to 

194 



overhear her one day as she sang to herself, often wished that 
she were a boy, that she might be a chorister, or perhaps 
learn to play one of the instruments that led the music from 
the gallery at the rear of the church. 

Five years had passed since Gregorio with his wife and child 
had come to the Mission. Then one day the blow, that had 
been threatened so often that the threat had come to be de- 
spised, fell. It was the season for the yearly visit of the Tul- 
areiios to the coast. Gregorio, at work in the vineyard at the 
foot of the hill below the Mission, was stealthily approached 
by an Indian boy in the dress of the Tularenos, who said that 
Gregorio's brother was waiting among the oaks beyond the 
creek to tell him something of importance. Gregorio, afraid to 
disregard this message as he had ignored the tokens sent, he 
believed, by old Nau-kloo, followed the boy. When hidden 
from the view of his companions in the vineyard, three arrows 
had been fired from ambush, and he fell dead. The body was 
found at noon, when the Indian workmen, noting his ab- 
sence, followed his tracks into the timber. The Tulareiio 
arrows told the tale. 

When they brought the body of Gregorio into his little 
adobe hut, another arrow was found stuck into the wall. 
Neither the wife nor Pasquala was to be found. There was no 
sign of struggle, but from that day they vanished from the 
Mission as though the very ground had swallowed them. The 
Tularenos had not left their vengeance incomplete. 

Sorely now the Father repented the blindness that had led 
him to believe that an Indian warning might be ignored; and 
sorely he lamented for his little favorite. Sorely, too, he felt 
the failure of his plans for the bringing of the Tularenos into 
the fold of the Church. His dream had but ended in the death 
or loss of those whom he had hoped to use as instruments. 
His one consolation was that they had been baptized, and he 

195 



believed that Pasquala, if living, would never forget the Mis- 
sion teaching. 

Far to the eastward from Santa In6s, in the hot, dry valley 
of the Lake of the Tules, Pasquala was living the bitter Ufe 
of a captive. Her mother was dead, as the result of the ill- 
treatment meted out to her by the vengeful Tulareiios, and 
Pasquala now lived with her uncle, the brother of Gregorio, 
who had first brought him the warning to return to his peo- 
ple, and then had betrayed him to his death. A hard lot, 
indeed, it was that had fallen to her. The only motive for 
the killing of her father and the abduction of her mother and 
herself had been that of revenge, since no benefit accrued to 
the tribe; and revenge now took its hateful pleasure in render- 
ing the child's life a daily martyrdom. The return for the 
hardest of work and the meekest obedience was constant 
abuse, and she was no stranger to blows. Her uncle, a mean- 
spirited man who himself would have stopped at no act of 
treachery, affected to feel himself degraded by his brother's 
action in forsaking his tribe, and visited upon poor Pasquala 
the pretended outrage upon his virtue. And if he had needed 
an abettor, old Nau-kloo, her father's enemy and now her own, 
was ever at hand to stimulate his persecutions and to sup- 
plement them with taunts of his own. 

So four miserable years passed over Pasquala's head. Then, 
one day, stung by some scornful remark directed at the Mis- 
sion, which it was known she still loved, she answered that 
the Indians there were happy, and better off than the Tulare- 
iios, and that some day the white people would come and drive 
the Tulareiios over the mountains, and their enemies the 
Inyos would kill them all. Then the Indians of the coast 
would take their land, because they had learned at the Mis- 
sion, and the Tulareiios were stupid. The retort so enraged 

196 



anb t^^xx QfUwion^ 



her uncle that with the shower of blows that fell on her he let 
fall a hint that Pasquala's quick mind seized upon. "You will 
soon see who it is that will be killed," he said. "It is a pity 
we did not leave you at the Mission, since you think so much 
of those women-men there. Then there would be an end to the 
lot of you, once for all." 

As she turned the words over and over that night in her 
mind, there seemed but one thing that they could mean : that 
there was to be an attack on the Mission, and that, not for 
robbery only, but for massacre. She knew the Indian method. 
The attack would be sudden and secret, probably at night. 
The people at the Mission would have no chance; all would 
be killed, as her uncle had said. If only she could warn them, 
she thought ; and as she recalled the kind words of the Father 
to her many a time, and contrasted them with the misery of 
her life among her own people, she determined to make the 
attempt. At the worst she would die with those who had 
been kind to her, or in trying to take them warning : but death 
was better than such a life as she was living. She would escape 
from her people. She could find the way over the mountains, 
for she had been over it several times in her earliest years 
(though she had always been left behind with the old men 
and women when the tribe had made their yearly expeditions 
to the coast since her recapture) ; and later she had traveled 
it again, with how much sorrow! 

As to when the attack was intended she knew nothing. But 
it was useless to wait in hope of learning that, for it would be 
only when the fighing men were about to start that she would 
find out, and that would be too late. She might, indeed, be 
too late in any case, for she knew that her imcle would guess 
whither she had gone, and, remembering the words he had 
let fall, would know that she would warn the people at the 
Mission. Then the war party would start at once, and if they 

197 



^^t Cafifomia ^Cibxt$ 



overtook her she would be killed and they would go on and 
destroy the Mission. Yes, she must go the very next night, as 
soon as it was dark. She could walk and run all night, and 
perhaps they would not be able to overtake her. 

During the day she took a little dried venison and some 
acorn meal from the big store-basket which stood in the cor- 
ner of the hut, and at night, when her uncle and his wife were 
sleeping, she rose from her bed of straw, and with Indian 
stealth, step by step, edged her way toward the door. She 
lifted the skin that hung over the entrance, passed out, and 
stood for a moment listening, ready with an excuse in case 
she had been observed. But all was quiet, and slipping like 
a shadow past the two or three huts that she had to pass, she 
was out in the cold, quiet night, alone. 

There was a half moon, and the night was clear. She ran 
quickly but steadily, husbanding her strength with Indian 
instinct. She had tied her little bundle of food in a piece of 
deerskin and fastened it to her waist, so that it should not 
impede her movements. When she had run for nearly an 
hour she began to stumble; so she stopped for a few moments 
to rest, then went on, walking now, but as fast as she could. 
When she felt able, she ran again; and so, alternately running 
and walking, she made her way along the rough and narrow 
trail imtil, after several hours, she sat down, exhausted, at 
the foot of a friendly oak, and instantly fell asleep. She awoke 
with a start and a cry. There was a movement in the brush 
close beside her, and her first thought was that she had been 
overtaken. It was only some night-wandering beast that had 
startled her, but it taught her caution. She must not stop on 
the trail, where she would easily be caught if she fell asleep: 
and after that, whenever she sat down to rest, she turned aside 
into some hidden place, not meaning to sleep, but fearing lest 
she might. 

198 



So the night passed, and when the day broke (early, for it 
was summer) she was far on her way. So far the trail had 
been plain, but now she came to a place where another track 
led away. She could not tell which was the right one, and she 
felt lost and frightened: a mistake would ruin all, and how 
could she tell? Then she thought she would pray, as the 
Father had taught her at the Mission, and perhaps the Blessed 
Virgin would show her the way. So she prayed, kneeling at the 
parting of the trail; and when she stood up she saw, as if they 
had just been put there (for she had not seen them before) 
three smooth white pebbles. They were set in the ground in 
a line, at the foot of a small oak, and were half hidden in the 
dead leaves; but she knew it was an Indian sign, and marked 
the way her people took to the coast. So she went a little far- 
ther, and then, coming to a small stream that ran in a hollow, 
she found a sheltered place and sat down to eat. 

Soon the sun came up and warmed her, and she felt glad, 
and remembered that there, in front of her, was the Mission, 
and soon, if the Blessed Virgin would help her, she might be 
there, once more happy as she used to be. And again she 
prayed, and as she rose and went on, she had a feeling of assur- 
ance that she should fulfill her purpose. 

All that day she hurried on, with bruised and aching feet, 
but with the patient fortitude of the Indian. When she found 
wild fruit, gooseberries, or tunas, she ate of them, to save her 
small stock of provisions; and now and then she rested, but 
always with caution, and taking only fitful snatches of sleep. 
Night came, this time chill and foggy, and when she could 
no longer see the trail she prayed again to the Virgin. Sleep 
overtook her as she prayed, and when she awoke, refreshed, 
the sky was clear and she had light for her journey. Soon 
after dawn the trail became more downward and easy, and 
she knew she had come to the top of the mountains. Once, 

199 



€^t CaCifotinia ^Cibxt^ 

too, she thought she saw, far away, the gray line of the 
sea. 

When the sun was high overhead she stopped to rest, for 
her feet refused to carry her farther. Every muscle ached 
with the long strain, and her head swam with the premonitory 
symptoms of fever. For a long time she lay and gazed up 
at the sky, and at last sank, into a half dream in which she 
thought she was again in the clean white bed at the Mission, 
and the Father was by the bedside to cure her. From the 
dream she fell into a sleep, from which she awoke refreshed, 
and took up her journey with a happier heart though with 
stiff and failing limbs. 

That evening, as she was eating the last of her food, she 
clearly saw the gleam of the sun on the distant ocean, and 
the sight brought a new fear. The trail she was on would 
take her to the sea, where her people went, but the Mission 
was not there, but by a clear, winding river. How was she to 
find it? She did not even know whether it lay to the right or 
the left of her path. The torture of the doubt added to her 
fever. Yet for hours she went wearily on by the clear light of 
the moon, until, about midnight, coming to a canon in which 
a stream ran, she halted from mingled fatigue and perplexity. 
Once more the thought came to her to pray to the Virgin, 
and even as she knelt at the foot of a tree she fell asleep. 
When she awoke from an uneasy slumber she seemed to hear 
the well-remembered sound of the bells of the Mission. It 
was only a delirium of her fevered ears, but as she listened 
she thought she still heard the sound, which seemed to come 
from the south, to her left hand: and she knew that again the 
Blessed Virgin had helped her. After bathing her face and 
feet in the cool brook she forced herself to take up her jour- 
ney once more; but she left the trail, and began to descend the 
canon, and the thought that she was now almost secure from 

200 



capture gave her courage, though, indeed, she was ahnost at 
the limit of her strength, and every step was torture. The 
canon was rough, with thick brush and many boulders, but 
there was water, and sometimes she found cactus with ripe 
fruit that refreshed her. 

And then, to her great joy, at a bend of the canon she saw, 
not far away, the winding river, and she knew it was the one 
that ran by the Mission. Eagerly now she pressed on, and 
before long, when the canon turned again, lo! there lay the 
beautiful Mission shining in the morning sun. She gave a cry 
of joy, and stopped for a moment to feast her eyes on the 
sight, while a flood of recollections overcame her and long 
unwept tears had their way. 

All was easy now. The canon widened and led gently down, 
and soon she could see the people moving about at their morn- 
ing tasks. It was almost too much of joy, coming upon the 
long mental and physical strain; and it was in a state of utter 
exhaustion that she came at last to the Mission. The few 
Indians whom she met looked curiously at her, but did not 
recognize her, for she had changed much during the past 
miserable four years, and now was haggard with fever and 
weariness. She knew where the Father would be at this time 
of day, in his little private garden adjoining the cemetery, 
and thither with failing steps she made her way. 

For a long time the good Father had held to the hope that 
Pasquala and her mother, whom he guessed to have been 
abducted, might somehow return, by escaping from their 
people on one of their visits to the coast : but as time went on 
he had given up the thought. Often, still, the recollection of 
Pasquala would come back to him, and he would grieve over 
the fate of the child, who had been so quick and teachable, so 
different from the dull Indians of his charge. To-day, as he 
walked to and fro in the shade of the big pear trees, he was 

201 



^^ CaCifotnia i^cibxt& 



planning the details of the anniversary service he meant to 
hold soon, when the Mission would have its twentieth birth- 
day. He would have the Fathers from Santa Barbara, San 
Buenaventura, and La Purisima to help in the service, and 
they would sing high mass. He had already begun to train 
the men who were to sing in the service. His mind reverted 
to the child Pasquala, who used so to love the music, and 
whose voice was sweet and clear, so unlike the harsh voices 
he was training with so much trouble and such poor results. 

As he turned in his walk he saw a figure approaching, a 
slight girl's figure, moving with slow, unsteady steps. As she 
came near he saw that it was Pasquala herself, but spent and 
haggard, a sight to bring the tears. "Pasquala!" he cried, 
"my poor child! How do you come here, and what has 
brought you to this sad plight?" But the girl was past re- 
plying. She had fallen at his feet in a burst of sobbing; and 
tenderly lifting her in his arms he carried her to a bench 
near by. 

When she had a little recovered she told her story, pain- 
fully and slowly, for her mind was far from clear. But the 
Father quickly gained the knowledge that she had brought 
at such cost, and his heart was full of pity and love for the 
child. Summoning the mayordomo, he committed Pasquala 
to the best care the Mission could afford, and then took steps 
to provide against the expected attack. All that night, while 
Pasquala tossed in fever on a clean white bed, in the very 
room where she had lain when a child, in her early illness, the 
Father was up and about. He had sent a runner over the moun- 
tains to Santa Barbara for aid, had posted some of his most 
trusted men far out on the trails to bring warning of the 
enemy's approach, had armed the others so far as he could, 
and had raised barricades at the points most open to assault. 
He guessed that the attack would come at night, and he was 

202 



not mistaken. An hour before midnight one of the scouts 
returned, bringing word that a war party of Tularenos was 
approaching. Soon after, another came in, reporting that 
Indians had been seen, in the moonlight, moving about 
among the timber ahnost within bowshot of the Mission. 
Pasquala's warning had been only just in time. 

Shortly before dawn came the shrill war whoop, and then 
the rush of the attacking Indians. The first assault was also 
the last, for the Tularenos, disheartened at finding the Mis- 
sion prepared for attack, drew off after only one attempt. The 
noise of the brief fight hardly reached Pasquala where she lay 
in a restless half dream, and she was only faintly aware of 
the Father coming in, laying his hand on her hot forehead, 
and blessing her as the savior of the Mission. To the terrible 
exhaustion of the journey there had succeeded a fever that 
could not be controlled b^ the simple means at the Father's 
command, and he saw with sorrow the young life of Pasquala 
ebbing quickly away.' 

Once, near the end, she regained for a short space her clear- 
ness of mind. The Father, who had already given her the 
Sacraments, was standing by her, watching the restless 
fingers as they played with the coverings of the bed. Un- 
consciously voicing his sorrowful thoughts, he murmured, 
half aloud, "Alas! it was then a true name that I gave you, 
for you have, indeed, laid down your life for ours, my poor 
Pasquala!" The wandering mind of the Indian child caught 
the name, and she opened her eyes, and knew him. "Yes, 
Padre," she said, thinking he had spoken to rouse her. "Pas- 
qualita," said the priest, taking the little hand in his, "you 
are truly our savior. But for your coming to warn us, the 
Mission would have been burned and many of us killed. The 
Blessed Virgin has favored you greatly. I shall put it all 
down in the book, so that always people will know that it was 

203 



^$e CaCtfomia ^ci^xt& 



Pasquala who saved the Mission." "Oh, Padre," she whisp- 
ered, a glow of her old childlike happiness Ughting up her 
face: "that will be fine!" Then, after a pause, she added, 
"Padre, will you tell me how you will put it in the book?" 
"Yes, my daughter," the priest answered; "I shall write down 
that Pasquala came a long journey over the mountains to 
warn me, and that so the Mission was preserved. Is not that 
right?" "Oh, yes. Padre," she replied painfully: "but will 
you say that it was Pasquala the Indian girl that you cured? " 
"Surely I will say so," said the priest. Again there was a 
silence, and then she whispered once more, "Padre, will you 
say how the Blessed Virgin came and helped Pasquala, too?" 
"Be sure I will say so, my daughter," said the Father. Seeing 
how rapidly the remaining sands were running out, the Father 
again gave her absolution and pronounced over her the last 
blessing; and a few hours later Pa»quala's short and troubled 
life was ended. 

The burial was a solemn one. There was no precedent for 
the burying of an Indian within the actual precincts of one of 
the Missions: but as the Father stood by the dead child's 
body the thought came to him that the Mission which owed 
to her its preservation might well afford her a burying-place. 
He knew what happiness she would have had at the thought; 
and when he asked himself whether the Church would ap- 
prove, the words came to his mind, "Greater love hath no 
man than this," and they seemed a sufficient answer to the 
sorrowing priest. And so it comes that Pasquala, the Indian 
child, rests from her long journey within the Mission that 
she died to save. 



LA PURISIMA 




La Purisima: Its Mission and Its Rebellion 

O OMPOC is a place of modest size and hid so snugly away 
-^^ in its secluded valley that I doubt if many readers of the 
present chronicle have even so much as heard of it: or, if they 
have, know how to pronounce its aboriginal-looking name. 
I may, therefore, be excused for stating that its last syllable 
rhymes with "joke." In the world of commerce, however, 
Lompoc is a place to be seriously reckoned with. It lies in the 
heart of as fertile a httle valley as the sun often shines upon; 
and impartially, like the same sun, which shines for all sorts 
of businesses, it caters to man's aesthetic aspirations by rais- 
ing sweet-pea seeds and to his fleshly tastes by turning out 
onions and potatoes by the carload. It is also strong on beans. 
But the chief gem of Lompoc's agricultural crown is mustard 
seed. Lompoquians will tell you they raise all the mustard 
seed for the whole United States, and I believe statistics go 
a considerable way toward supporting the little town's claim 
to this hot preeminence. 

More to our purpose is the fact that Lompoc is a Mission 
town. It stands on land that once belonged to La Mision de 
la Purisima Concepcion de la Santisima Virgen Maria, Madre 
de Dios y Nuestra Senora — that is, the Mission of the Most 
Pure Conception of the Most Holy Virgin Mary, Mother of 
God and Our Lady. That, it seems, was the official name, 
but usage has cut it down to as much of a wreck as time has 
wrought of its buildings, and no one any longer speaks of it 
except as Purisima.^ Nevertheless, Lompoc cherishes the 
* From Mission Santa" In6s, Lompoc is but twenty-two miles or so, due west 

207 



€^t CaCifotnta i^cCbttB 



memory of its ecclesiastic past. Strolling from my hotel down 
its main street, I came shortly in sight of a hill at the town's 
southern outskirts, upon whose flank a colossal cross, out- 
lined with electric lights, overlooked town and valley. It 
marks, beside an ancient reservoir, the approximate site of 
the first cross erected by the Franciscan missionaries who 
here founded, on December 8,1787, the first mission dedicated 
to "the singular, most pure mystery of the Empress of the 
Heavens, Mary Most Holy; that is, of her Immaculate Con- 
ception." The commemorative cross was unveiled December 
8, 191 2, and blessed and venerated in the presence of a large 
assemblage, including a handful of Indians brought from the 
reservation near Santa Ines to chant the hymns of the Church 
around the foot of the cross. The scene brought vividly to mind 
the event of one hundred and twenty-five years before, and 
all Lompoc, Protestant as well as Catholic, Jew and twentieth- 
century Gentile, joined heartily in the occasion as of one blood ; 
and the municipality of Lompoc, I was told, freely contri- 
butes the electricity to light the cross when at night it sheds 
its radiance over the valley, like an up-to-date version of 
Portia's candle. 

But alas, for the ancient Mission! A stone's throw distant 
from this fine cross and on the same declivity, a few roofless 
walls of crumbling adobe, inside a crazy barbed wire fence, 
are all that is left to bear witness to the original establish- 
ment. In this case, not human neglect, but Nature, is respon- 
sible for the ruin — Nature, in the shape of earthquake. The 
year 181 2 is known in the old annals of California as el afio 
de los temblores — the year of the earthquakes — because of 

by a road {el Catnino Real) that follows in a general way the Santa In6s River. 
The traveler by public conveyance, however, must go sixty-three miles to 
reach it; that is, by stage to Gaviota, rail to Surf, and rail again from Surf to 
Lompoc. Altogether, counting waits en route, this will consume most of a 
day. 

208 



cmb t^txx (\Ttt00ion0 

the numerous severe shocks which the coast suffered. On 
December 8 of that year, the day that brought havoc to Mis- 
sion San Juan Capistrano, only slight tremors were felt at 
La Purisima; but, on December 21, came what must have 
seemed both to Padres and neophytes the beginning of the 
world's end. About half past ten in the morning a severe 
shaking set in and continued for four minutes; then followed 
a succession of slight vibrations, culminating about eleven 
o'clock in a furious quaking lasting more than five minutes. 
This brought the church tumbling down in a shapeless heap 
of ruins and completed the destruction of about a hundred 
adobe huts which the neophytes had occupied. The hillside, 
back of the Mission, cracked wide in several places and belched 
water and black sand. One of these great gaps is seen to this 
day. Hard upon this, the heavens opened and precipitated 
such torrents of rain as all but swept the devoted settlement 
into the rampant Santa Ines River — in those days, by the 
way, called the Rio de Santa Rosa. With it all there was no 
loss of life, though several sustained injuries. 

After such a terrible dressing-down, the Padres took the 
hint and looked around for a likelier situation to rebuild. 
This was found across the river in the Valley of the Water 
Cresses (La Canada de los Berros), distant from old Purisima 
about four miles, "and the same distance back again," as the 
record carefully specifies — meaning, perhaps, that the way 
between is level, which it is. Thither in 1813 the missionaries 
moved with their dusky family and such salvage as they had 
managed to rescue from the wreck of the first Mission; and 
there in succeeding years a fine new establishment grew under 
their hands. Even this is all a sad wreck now; but it makes an 
object for a pleasant walk from Lompoc, over a good road 
that skirts prosperous-looking ranch lands and bean fields 
beside the Santa Ines River — the mildest of shallow streams 

209 



^§e CaCifomia ^Cibtt& 



in the dry season, but, in the wet, capable of becoming over- 
night an unbridled torrent. 

Roofless, breached of wall, and half hidden in a tangle of 
wild mustard and rank weeds, Purisima is desolate as Tad- 
mor in its wilderness, and seemingly as thoroughly beyond 
hope of repair. Its most striking feature is a line of square 
white pillars which stand like forgotten sentinels, solidified 
at their posts. Of a black night their wan lengths amid the 
ruins might be disturbing to the nerves, I fancy. They once 
supported the tile roof of the corridor front, and, being of 
brick, bid fair to outlast the wasting adobe walls behind them. 
The pity of it is that only a few years since the building's utter 
ruin could have been arrested. The owners of the land which 
it occupies, the Union Oil Company of California, offered to 
deed it to trustees as an historic monument, provided fifteen 
hundred dollars should be promptly spent on repairs to stop 
the inroads of the elements; but the beggarly sum was not 
forthcoming, and the work of disintegration has gone re- 
morselessly on until now fifteen thousand dollars would prob- 
ably not do what fifteen hundred dollars would have done 
when the offer was made. As I strolled about, I came here 
and there upon reservoirs and other remains of the fine irriga- 
tion system. One strongly built basin had steps of square red 
tiles descending into it, as though for the convenience of In- 
dians going down to wash their clothing in the water there, 
or perhaps for Purisima Rebeccas to fill their jars the more 
easily. 

Though Purisima was rather a frosty, grasshoppery place 
in its day, and overrun unduly with ground squirrels,^ rattle- 
snakes and bears, the records say, it attained an enviable 

1 A curious by-product of the Mission system in California is said to have 
been the marked increase of gophers and ground squirrels coincident with the 
civilizing of the natives. In their Gentile days the Indians had regularly fed 
on these rodents. 

2IO 



measure of temporal prosperity, particularly in the matter 
of cattle, the Purisima herds being widely famous. Padre 
Mariano Payeras, who served here from 1804 to 1823 (during 
five years of which nineteen he was President of the Missions) , 
has left in one of his reports an idyllic picture of life at La 
Purisima. The neophytes, according to this document, were 
famously docile, industrious, and disinclined to run off to the 
monte. It was the Padre's joy to watch them at their work, 
their songs and their prayers, and especially to see how pa- 
tiently they bore their sufferings, begged for confession, and 
died as good Christians should die. 

Yet it was these same Indians who, within a year after 
Padre Payeras' death, engineered the most serious revolt of 
Mission history against white domination. This, though, 
seems to have been due not so much, if at all, to the mission- 
ary system as to other causes. With the progress of Mexico's 
revolution against Spain there was a spread of lax notions 
respecting all authority, both civil and ecclesiastic, and the 
attitude of the white Californians toward the priests grew 
increasingly indifferent, while the temporal wealth of the Mis- 
sions became correspondingly the object of their covetous- 
ness. One form which this took was for the military authori- 
ties to require of the Missions that the neophytes should do 
manual labor for the soldiers. For such work the Indians got 
more kicks than halfpence; in fact, it is unlikely that they re- 
ceived any pay at all; for, while the Spanish Government had 
been a notoriously poor paymaster, the Mexican was prob- 
ably worse. The result was what might have been expected. 
From sullen discontent, the Indians were at last goaded into 
an active rebelUon, which broke out simultaneously at Santa 
Ines, Purisima, and Santa Barbara on February 21, 1824, the 
immediate cause being the flogging of a Purisima neophyte 
by the corporal of the guard of Santa Ines. 

211 



S^§e Cafifotnia ^(K\>xt& 

It seems to have been a pathetic little rebellion, whose 
timid, fluttering day lasted only till a company of one hun- 
dred soldiers could be had down from Monterey. At Puris- 
ima four hundred Indians with Falstaffian courage managed 
to overcome the half-dozen soldiers of the guard, after the 
latter's powder gave out (!), and deported them to Santa 
Ines. Then the Indians set about fortifying the Mission, first 
keeping the resident Padre under guard against emergencies 
— fat Fray Rodriguez, famed for his pop-eyes, heavy jowls, 
and kindly heart. They cut loopholes in the Mission walls to 
fire from, and mounted two old pedreros, or swivel guns, which 
until then had been used for no more bloody work than terri- 
fying ungodly spirits on feast days. For three weeks there 
reigned at Purisima such equivocal joy as comes to children 
playing truant, with the sure knowledge of a sound thrashing 
being on the way. On March i6, the thrashing arrived with 
the troops from Monterey — horse, foot, and artillery, the 
latter consisting of one four-pound cannon. The neophytes, 
in spite of their numbers, their two swivels, and a dozen or so 
of muskets, besides native bows and arrows unnumbered, 
were impotent against the soldiers, and, after suffering two 
hours' bombardment, they begged Padre Rodriguez to help 
them out of their scrape. He, good man, sallied forth under a 
white flag, and succeeded so well for his luckless children that 
the siege was raised upon delivery to the military of several 
ring-leaders who were variously sentenced to death, imprison- 
ment, and banishment. The Mission buildings had been much 
damaged by the attack upon them, and the church had to be 
rebuilt. As for poor Padre Rodriguez, who had been sick be- 
fore, he never got over the adventure. Immediately after the 
fight, he departed for San Luis Obispo, where the same year 
he laid down the burden of his flesh to receive, I trust, the 
livery of the Children of Light. 



Mil i^txx (^xmon$ 
II 

A Little Mystery of La Purisima 

aNne hardly expects to meet ghosts in California. We are 
^"^ too new, and also, I think, there is too much sun. But 
if ghosts there be in this hustling century and this most mod- 
ern of States, then certainly the Missions are the places where 
one might expect to see or to hear of them : and of all the Mis- 
sions, commend me to La Purisima for such a quest. With 
all my interest in and sympathy for these relics of " the glory, 
that was Spain's," I must allow that the sensation in my mind 
when I recall my visit to this particular Mission is not a pleas- 
ant one. There seemed something sinister in the phenomenal 
weediness, a slimy dankness about the debris of broken adobe, 
a gloom about the whole place that the glare of sun somehow 
accentuated, as if it were the gleam of a detective's lantern 
turned on some ominous, secret spot. 

But, then, I knew that such impressions are apt to arise 
simply from one's mood at the time, while that may come 
from nothing more mysterious than one's liver. Still, I was 
not a Httle interested in an experience of my friend R. L. D. 
recently at La Purisima. I venture to pass it on to the reader, 
just as he told it to me, merely prefacing it by remarking that 
my friend is not any more prone to psychologic excitements 
than the average person. For convenience' sake I write the 
account in the first person, but without unnecessary com- 
plication in the matter of inverted commas. This is his story: 

You remember that three years ago this summer I was 
making a sight-seeing trip through southern California. I 
stayed for a few hours at the little town of Lompoc, where 
lives your friend Senor Andres Leyva, to whom, you will 

213 



^§e CaCifotrnia ^abve^ 



recall, you had given me a note of introduction. I called on 
him in the afternoon and spent a very pleasant and profitable 
hour. I meant to camp that night at the ruins of the second 
Mission, which are three or four miles out of the town. I 
made a point of seeing all the Missions that were near my line 
of travel, and when possible I camped for a night with them, 
having rather a fancy, as you know, for poking about this 
kind of place in the dim, owl-haunted hours when the tourist 
ceases from troubling and the motor-car is at rest in the gar- 
age. So as I was leaving I mentioned my plan of camping 
to Sefior Leyva. "You had better change your mind," he 
said, shaking his head: "it is not a good place at night, I have 
heard." "Why not?" I asked; "I suppose you mean that it 
is unhealthful over there, damp, perhaps?" "No, it is not 
that," he replied, "but you will not sleep." "Why not?" I 
asked again. "I'm used to camping out, and always sleep 
particularly well out of doors." "Well," he answered, "you 
must go if you must. You English like to do such things, I 
have heard. For me, no: I enjoy more a quiet sleep without 
disturbances and unpleasant company." "But please tell 
me what you mean," I said, becoming interested at what 
seemed a hint of mystery. "I will tell you," our friend said, 
"though you will only laugh, I suppose. You are a Protes- 
tant, and believe nothing." At this I protested, indeed. He 
laughed, and rejoined, " So the priests tell us, senor, but then, 
I know it is not so. We all believe in the good God, is it not 
so? But this is why you should not try to sleep at the Mission. 
It is a story that I shall tell you, but I know it is true, for it 
happened in my own family, and I shall tell it just as my 
father told it to me. That was many years ago, but I heard 
it from him more than once, and I remember it very well. 

"Many years ago my mother's uncle, Don Felipe, used to 
have the San Tomas Ranch, not very far from the Mission; 

214 



and when my father and mother came to California from Mex- 
ico, about 1830 or 1831, they lived with Don FeUpe while 
their own house was being built. It was a large hacienda that 
Don Felipe had, and though his wife was dead he liked to 
have much company, so there were always many guests, with 
meriendas in the daytime and dancing almost every night. 
Don Felipe had one son, whose name was Jorge. He was only 
about twenty years old, but he was not like a young man, 
but like a monk. He did not care to be with the other people, 
and often when there was a merienda he would go away and 
ride all day over the ranch. So it was not strange that no one 
liked him. But just the opposite of Jorge was my mother's 
young brother ,Vicente. He had come from Mexico when my 
father and mother came, and was a handsome galanteador, 
who could dance finely, and play the guitar, and make him- 
self agreeable to the ladies. 

"Well, seiior, it came that there was some trouble about 
the land that my father expected to get for his ranch. The 
Governor would not let him have the place he wanted. I 
need not tell you all about it, but everybody thought that 
Don Jorge, who was a friend of the Governor, wanted that 
piece of land for himself, and had made the Governor act the 
way he did. At any rate, Don Vicente said right out that Don 
Jorge had made the trouble. There was a bad quarrel be- 
tween the two young men, and after that there was trouble 
almost every day. 

"It was fifteen miles from Don Felipe's house to the Mis- 
sion, and whenever there was a feast day, like Easter or Cor- 
pus Christi, they used to go to mass at the Mission. Don 
Felipe was a good man, and he would have every one go, even 
if it stopped all the work on the ranch. It came to be one of 
the Holy Days, and all went to mass. Those who could ride 
went on horseback, and those who were too old went in the 

215 



t^^t CaCifomia Qpabte^ 



ox carts. It was a very slow way to travel, and took nearly 
all day; so they had to go the day before, and sleep at the Mis- 
sion, and generally they slept there the next night, too, and 
came back the day after. Of course Don Jorge and Don Vi- 
cente went, for everybody went on those days, and it was like 
Si fiesta after the service: they had games, and dancing, and 
sometimes there was a bull-fight. People had come from the 
other ranches about there, and among them, this time that 
I am teUing about, there were Don Esteban from the Los 
Alisos, and his daughter Dona Anita, who people thought 
would marry Don Jorge. She was very rich, and Don Jorge 
used to go often to the Los AHsos, though he never went to 
other places. 

"Well, in the afternoon, after mass was over, they had 
games and horse-racing. Don Jorge was a very good rider, 
the best in all the country, some people said. He had often 
won the races and horseback games at the fiestas, and he was 
proud of his riding; all the more, I suppose, because it was the 
only thing that he did well. They had a game that day that 
was called juego de gallo. It was burying a chicken in the 
ground, all but the head, and then the caballeros would ride 
at full speed and stoop over and catch the chicken. It was a 
good game, and you had to ride well and have a good horse 
too. When some one asked Don Vicente to play the game he 
said No, it was a new game to him, and he would not play. 
Don Jorge heard him say it, and he said, so that others 
could hear, 'Don Vicente es buen ginete en la sala,^ that is, 
Don Vicente is a good horseman in the drawing-room, mean- 
ing that he spent all his time with the ladies and could not do 
anything else. Don Vicente heard it, but he laughed and 
said, 'It is not everybody that can ride in the drawing-room. 
It seems as if some people could not walk there, even.' That 
made Don Jorge very angry, but before he could say anything 

216 



Don Vicente said it would not do any harm to practice and 
become a good cahallero in the field, too, so he would play at 
the game if Don Jorge would show him how to ride. Don 
Jorge did not want to have anything more to do with him, but 
he thought it would show how much better he could ride than 
Vicente; so he said he would ride at the chicken three times, 
and then Don Vicente could show if he could play at any- 
thing except the guitar. 

"So he rode, and twice he caught the chicken out of three 
times. Then Don Vicente rode. The horse he had was a good 
one, but had not been ridden many times, and every one 
thought he would not do anything. One must know one's 
horse to play at juego de gallo; I used to play it myself, and I 
know. Well, Don Vicente caught the chicken once, and every- 
body said it was good, but it must be luck. Then he caught 
it again, and they began to think he must know the game, 
after all. The third time he caught it also, and everybody 
shouted Bueno! and Excelente! for that was very fine playing, 
to get the chicken three times together. But he said that it 
must be luck, because they did not play games like that in 
drawing-rooms: but it was a good game, and he would like 
to play it with something smaller to ride for, if Don Jorge 
would try again with him. Don Jorge could see that when Vi- 
cente said he did not know the game he was only setting a trap 
to make him look foolish : but he could not very well refuse to 
play, for everybody, and Dona Anita, too, would say he was 
afraid of being beaten. So he said he would ride again. Don 
Vicente said they would have a coin to ride for: that would 
not be so easy. Dona Anita, who was close to him, pointed 
to the buttons on her bodice, and asked if they would do. 
They were silver buttons, not much bigger than a real. He 
said Yes, and she took the knife and cut one off and gave it 
to him. Then what must Vicente do but put it to his mouth 

217 



Z^t Cati^oxnxci ^ciW& 



and kiss it. We have a saying for one who is reckless, that 
* el husca cinco pies al gato teniendo cuatro: ' that is, he looks for 
a cat to have five feet, when they only have four. Well, Don 
Vicente was one Hke that : he was — how do you say it? — 
looking for trouble that day. Next he looked in a bold way 
at Don Jorge, and then bowed to Dona Anita, and said, ' It is 
a don de amor, bellisima: I shall take care not to lose it.' Then 
he said to Don Jorge, *We have a fine prize to try for now, 
caballero. You must ride better than you did the last time, 
or you may lose it.' 

" By that time Don Jorge was angry enough to kill. Don 
Vicente was doing it all to make him angry, especially what 
he said to Dona Anita. He did not care about her: she was 
older than he, and not very pretty; but the devil was in him, 
and he did not care. They got on their horses, and Vicente 
rode first. No one thought he could pick up the button, but 
he did it the three times without missing. Then Don Jorge 
tried, but he did not do it the first time, and he would not try 
again. My father said to Don Vicente that he had better 
take care, or Jorge would do him some harm; but he laughed 
and said he only needed to take care of his back, for that was 
where Don Jorge tried to hurt people, as he had done to my 
father about the land. 

"As I said, the people who came from the ranches far away 
stayed at the Mission the two nights. The priest — his name 
was Fray Antonio Rodriguez, I remember — had long tables 
set in the corridor for meals, and there were plenty of rooms 
for sleeping. There was much fun and joking at Supper. 
Jorge sat next to Dona Anita, and Vicente, who was not far 
away, seemed to try to keep up the quarrel by the things he 
said to her. It was as if the devil was in him, and they say 
jealousy is the worst devH of all. After supper they all sat in 
the dusk and talked and smoked cigarritos. Some one had a 

218 



guitar, so there was music, and after a while they called for 
Don Vicente to sing. He had been there at first, laughing and 
joking, but now he was missing. It was dark by that time. 
Then some one said, for fun, that they had better see if Dona 
Anita was there. She did not speak, and they soon found she 
was not there, nor Don Jorge either. That was bad, for Don 
Esteban, her father, was a strict man, a Spaniard, and the 
Spaniards are very particular about the unmarried girls, for 
fear they should get talked about. Everybody was uncom- 
fortable, but they thought she would come back before the 
time came to have candles and retire to bed. 

" My mother was tired, and was the first to go. In a mo- 
ment, she came running back and said to my father that Dona 
Anita was outside by one of the pillars. She had fallen down, 
and must have hurt herself. My father told Don Esteban, and 
they went and found that she had fainted, and might have 
been there a long time. When they got her out of the faint she 
said she had been to her room to get a handkerchief. While 
she was in the room she heard people talking, as if they were 
quarreling, and then she heard one of them call out, and after 
that there was silence. She was afraid there was trouble, and 
came back to tell her father; but she felt faint, and sat down 
by the post, and that was all she remembered. 

"What Dona Anita had said made my father uneasy about 
Vicente, so before going to bed he went to see if he was in his 
room, but he was not there. Then he went to Don Jorge's 
room, and saw that he seemed to be asleep. So he thought it 
must be all right, and that Vicente had only gone for a ride, 
as he did sometimes at night. The first thing in the morning 
he went to Don Vicente's room again, but he was not there 
and the bed had not been touched. Then he was sure some- 
thing was wrong. He told Don Felipe and the priest, and 
they went and searched. They went to the place where the 

219 



^^t Cafifotnia ^alxtB 

horses were kept, and Vicente's horse was there. The Indian 
who kept the horses told Don Felipe that Jorge had come at 
daybreak and taken his horse, and had left a message for Don 
FeHpe that he had to attend to some work that would take 
aU day, so he would not be home at the ranch till night. 

"Many of the people were leaving early in the morning, 
but Don Felipe and my father and mother would not go with- 
out knowing about Don Vicente. They knew he had not 
gone home, because of his horse. My mother was almost wild, 
for Don Vicente was her favorite brother, and to think he 
might be dead, and not to know anything, was terrible grief. 

"Just before the time for service in the evening, an In- 
dian named Bernardino, who was the mayordomo, called the 
Padre to come with him. They had foimd Don Vicente. You 
will see, if you go to the Mission, that there is one little room 
by itself, like a separate house. The walls are very thick. I 
have been told that it was a jail in the early days. It was 
partly broken down, although it was so thick. I suppose the 
bricks were of bad adobe, or else they were not dried properly. 
That is where Bernardino took the Padre, and he pointed to 
one corner where there was a heap of the bricks that had 
fallen down. Bernardino said, 'He is there, Padre,' and the 
priest went closer, and then he saw something among the 
bricks, and that it looked as if they had been moved. He sent 
for a lantern and some Indians to move the bricks away, and 
then he saw that Don Vicente was there and that he was dead. 
There was no blood and the Indians said that the wall had 
fallen on him: but Bernardino whispered to the Padre, No, he 
had been put there : and the Padre knew it was so, and that 
some one had killed him. 

"Everybody must have known in his mind that Don Jorge 
had done it, but because Don Felipe was his father no one 
said what he thought: it was bad enough to have Vicente 

220 



dead without making more trouble. They thought it would 
be best to have the funeral quickly; so they took the body 
into the church and put it in front of the altar, and some of 
them stayed with it all that night. The next morning they 
had the burial. 

" The next day, Don Felipe went home to his ranch. Then 
in the evening there came bad news from the priest at San 
Buenaventura. Some Indians from there were coming from 
San Fernando with ohves. While they were crossing over the 
Santa Clara River at the fording-place, they saw the hoof of 
a horse sticking up out of the wet sand a Httle way off. Do 
you know the Santa Clara River, sefior? It is a bad river: 
there is not much water, but it has much quicksand, and it is 
dangerous to cross it unless you know the safe places. The 
Indians thought a man had sunk in the sand, because they 
could see part of a sombrero in the sand close to the horse. 
They had two horses with them, and they took the pack- 
ropes and made a noose and threw it over the hoof like a 
reata, and made the horses pull. They got it out far enough 
to see that there was a saddle, and that there was silver on the 
leg-guards, but they could not get it farther out. When they 
got back to the Mission they told the Father, and he thought 
it must be Don Jorge because the horse was black, like the 
one Don Jorge had been riding. 

"Well, senor, that was what had happened. Don Jorge had 
gone home early in the morning after he had killed Vicente, 
and taken a new horse and some money, and had started to 
go somewhere and get away. I suppose he was going to 
Mexico, but no one ever knew. My father and Don Felipe 
went to the place in the river with horses and ropes, but by 
that time the horse was gone out of sight and there was noth- 
ing but the sand. So Don Vicente and Don Jorge were both 
dead. Don Jorge must have tried to cross the river in the 

221 



^§e CaCifotnia ^cibxtB 



dark. It would be just about the time that they found 
Vicente's body when Jorge was caught in the quicksand. 
They say that God will not owe a debt to any one very long. 
Truly, it was not long before Don Jorge was paid. 

" So that is why La Purisima is a bad place to stop, senor. 
I would not go there if I were you; not at night, anyhow." 

"Well," I said, "it is certainly a terrible story, and I am 
sorry it should have happened in your family. But it was 
long ago, and I did not kill poor Don Vicente, so why should 
I not sleep there, if I wish to?" 

"It must be as you will, senor," he replied; "only I have 
heard that people who die like Don Vicente,without a chance 
of confessing to the priest, do not stay in their graves, but 
they come out at night and try to make a confession, so that 
they can stay quiet. Vicente was only a boy, but he was a 
spirited lad, and it is likely he had much to confess. I do not 
know about all that, but I know many people have heard bad 
things there at night, and they say it is because of Don 
Vicente's spirit." 

"It seems to me that Don Jorge should be the one to con- 
fess," said I. "We have many stories like that in England, 
but I have always thought that the people who see the spirits 
are the restless ones — I mean that people who are nervous 
and cannot sleep weU get these ideas out of their own brains. 
Well, I am a good sleeper, and do not hear or see many things 
at night ; but I will write and tell you what happens, or does n't 
happen, to me at La Purisima." 

And now (continued my friend) for my own share in the 
business. It was late afternoon when I arrived at the remains 
of the Mission. After eating supper I spread my blankets on 
a level spot at the west end and just at the rear of the build- 
ing. Then I used up the remaining daylight in exploring the 
ruin. You have not been there at night-time, I believe? Well, 

222 



I can assure you that it is the owHest and battiest, froggiest 
and rattiest of ruins, and I thought to myself that if our good 
friend had told me the foregoing story here in its proper set- 
ting, I might have been more impressed. By the time the 
light was gone a cold wind had begun to blow, so instead of 
picketing my horse in the open I took him to a little adobe hut 
sort of place, that might have been an outhouse. It was roof- 
less, and the greater part of the walls had fallen, but there was 
a corner that if it were a little higher would give a good shelter 
from the wind. I gathered some of the best of the adobe 
bricks that lay about, and put them carefully in place, so as 
to raise the height, and found the place then made a pretty 
snug makeshift stable. So I brought the horse in and tied 
him to a heavy timber, and left him happy with his grain, 
while I myself turned in at my camp, some twenty paces or 
so away. I slept well, only that twice I was awakened by the 
horse plunging and snorting. The second time I got up and 
went over to quiet him. He was trembhng and wet with 
sweat, and I had some trouble to calm him. To avoid a third 
disturbance I took him outside and blanketed him as best I 
could, and left him tied to a bush, after which I slept undis- 
turbed until daylight. 

When I went to give the horse his morning grain I noticed, 
on glancing into the house, that the adobes I had placed in 
position on the wall were thrown down — not merely one or 
two that might have slipped and fallen, but every single brick, 
many of which could by no possibility have fallen by chance, 
for they were heavy and had been squarely placed. The 
horse could not have pulled them down : even by kicking he 
could not have reached the wall, and had he done so the wall 
itself must have fallen before the bricks, each weighing several 
pounds, would have been dislodged. I studied the problem 
while I ate my breakfast, but could arrive at no possible 

223 



€^^ Cafifomia ^(Xbx^9 



solution; and on starting on my road to the north I left the 
puzzle unsolved. 

At Santa Maria, a few days later, I thought of my promise 
to let our friend know how I had fared at La Purisima. In 
writing I said that I had seen and heard nothing of any 
spirits, but I mentioned, as a matter not of any particular 
significance, the riddle about the bricks. At San Luis I re- 
ceived his reply, of which the part that concerns this matter 
runs as follows : — 

"... I think it is fortunate, amigo mio, that your horse and 
not yourself was in the old adobe. If the place you speak of 
is the little building near the west end of the Mission, that is 
the house in which they found the body of Don Vicente, I do 
not think I said, when I was telling you the story, that my 
father used to say that many times the Padre had had the 
wall put up after Don Vicente was found there, but always 
it was pulled down the next night. He had it properly built, 
and the bricks laid in mortar, but they were pulled down every 
time, and at last the Indians said they would not put them 
up again. They said it was Don Vicente's spirit that pulled 
them down, because they had fallen on him and killed him. 
Then the house got a bad name, and it was never used for 
anything all the time till the Padres left the Mission. 

"It is strange that after all this time the bricks should fall 
again. I do not know what you say about the spirit now. For 
me, I think it was Don Vicente's spirit that broke down the 
wall and frightened the horse; and when you come again to 
Lompoc I recommend you to choose a bed in the house of a 
good Catholic, who is also 

"Your friend and faithful servant, 

"Andres Munoz Leyva." 



SAN LUIS OBISPO 







Mission San Luis Obispo de Tolosa: Its Bears and 
Its Bells 

Ht would seem almost as if the Lady Poverty herself had 
^ taken a personal interest at the place we now call San Luis 
Obispo, in preparing the way for the Lesser Brothers of her 
lover Francis in California. The first few years of the Mis- 
sion period, while the orchards were not yet of bearing age 
and the tricks of an untried climate and soil were being 
learned, were times of a lean larder; and dependence for every 
sort of supplies, even food, had to be on shipments from 
Mexico, Such supplies came by occasional crazy little sailing 
craft which consumed anywhere from two months upward, 
in the twelve-hundred-mile voyage from San Bias to San 
Diego, or five hundred more to Monterey. In the spring of 
1772, owing to the non-appearance of the expected supply 
ships, the four Missions then existent were reduced to a state 
almost of famine, and the Padres joined with the birds and 
the Indians in picking up a scant living from the wilderness. 
At San Carlos, the comandante, to relieve the situation, set 
out with a few soldiers on a himt which carried the party from 
Monterey southward more than a hundred miles, where was a 
valley opening to the sea, named by Portola's expedition of 
1769 La Canada de los Osos,^ or, as we should say. Bear 
Valley. It was a great, open swale, with a marshy lagoon in 
the midst of it, and was a favorite stamping ground for bears, 

1 This was the soldiers' name for it. Fr. Crespf , as customary with him, had 
given the valley a more dignified, religious appellation, "La Natividad de 
Nuestra Senora," (the Nativity of Our Lady). 

227 



€^^ Cafifomia ^cibxt& 

which fed on the tule roots and other dainties to their taste, 
there abounding. Incidentally the beasts wrought more or 
less havoc among the rancherias of the Indians thereabout, 
for it was a populous region, "to the four winds settled with 
much Gentilism," remarks Palou {por los cuatro vientos estd 
pohlada de mucha gentilidad) . Accordingly the advent of the 
Spaniards with horse, lance, and carbine, bagging the bears 
as they would rabbits, seemed to the red men like the gods to 
the rescue. Thus it came about, when a few months later 
Padres Serra and Cavalier, arrived from Monterey, planted a 
cross at a spot a mile or so from La Canada de los Osos, and 
there dedicated, on September i, 1772, a Mission to St. Louis, 
Bishop of Toulouse, the Gentiles of the region were glad of 
their new neighbors; for the memory of those doughty deeds 
of valor among their enemies, the bears, was still fresh. And, 
when it came to listening to the message of these gray-gowns 
with a plan for beating the devil himself, why might there not 
be something in it, when their comrades of the same white 
skin were such redoubtable killers of bears? So, in the main, 
the Gentiles at San Luis Obispo were from the first favorably 
disposed toward the Mission. 

This was particularly providential, because at the time 
Serra was bound to San Diego, and, pending the arrival of a 
fresh supply of missionaries, there was no friar available to 
companion Cavalier. The latter, accordingly, had to be left 
alone to handle the case with two Christianized Indians from 
Lower California, a corporal's guard of five soldiers, and last 
but by no means least a box of brown sugar {un cajon de 
panochas), very efficacious bait for attracting the sweet- 
toothed Gentile into the apostolic net. As a consequence the 
spiritual fruit of the solitary Padre's first twelvemonth of 
labor was not bad — well on to three dozen of baptisms. 
This, too, notwithstanding what Serra called "the lashing of 

228 



the Enemy's tail," as manifested by the misdeeds of the evilly 
disposed soldiers, whose idleness always bred more or less of 
deviltry about the Missions. 

In Palou's "Noticias" I find a little description of San Luis 
Obispo in 1773, which enables us to picture that church in the 
wilderness in its first estate — practically a dupHcate of every 
other Mission at that time. "Within the palisade," he notes, 
"they have their Uttle church of stakes and tule, and some 
living-rooms for the Fathers with the corresponding work- 
shops, storeroom, and Hving-apartment for the soldiers of the 
guard, all of stakes and tule." Now, those tules of San Luis 
Obispo are worth noting, for they gave rise to history. They 
formed the thatch for roofing, as was the case at all the Mis- 
sions at first, and in the dry season they became so much tin- 
der. At San Luis, because of this, the Mission was thrice 
badly damaged by fire — once from a spiteful Indian's blazing 
arrow lodging in the thatch. As the experience was tending to 
become a habit, the Padres set their wits to work to supply a 
better sort of roof. Adobe, thick about them, suggested tiles, 
and though neither of the resident friars knew anything of the 
art of making them, they decided to try. The experiment 
proved successful, and San Luis's tile roofs set the fashion 
throughout California. The exact date of this first tile-making 
I do not find recorded, but it was before 1784. 

It was dark night when the train deposited me at San Luis 
Obispo town; and I went promptly to bed and to sleep in a 
very comfortable hotel to which a villainous little omnibus 
had rattled and jolted me from the station. Fatigue made a 
short night of it, and it seemed but a few minutes before I was 
startled wide awake by such an outlandish clamor of discord- 
ant bells as made me think for a moment that fire again was 
arousing the town. It proved, however, to be only the bell of 
the Mission calling to early mass — this edifice of my quest 

229 



^^^ Cafifotnia ^ci)>xt& 



being just around the corner. Mission bells, I seem to remem- 
ber, are a rather prominent feature among the properties of 
California poets. There is a very exquisite bit by Bret Harte, 
suggested by the Angelus sounding at the Mission Dolores — 
doubtless you know it, beginning 

"Bells of the past, whose long-forgotten music 
Still fiUs the wide expanse, 
Tingeing the sober twilight of the present 
With color of romance." 

It would be a robust poet, however, who could hold his own 
against San Luis's bells of the present, and I should judge the 
San Luisenos are indifferent, as a community, to concord of 
sweet sounds, or they would not stand for this demoniac 
chime. 

After breakfast, I walked around to the Mission, prepared 
by a post-card print in a shop window, to behold a building 
badly spoiled, to be sure, by a modem steeple, but still retain- 
ing some semblance to a Mission because of a corridor in front. 
In reality it proved to be a pretty fair facsimile of a New 
England frame meeting-house, painted white. Even the tile 
roof, which of all the Missions should be San Luis Obispo's 
badge of architectural glory, had given place to prosaic 
shingles; and there was no corridored front. The latter, which 
formerly ran the length of the convento wing, and gave distinc- 
tion to the historic structure, was torn down a few years ago, 
because it played Alexander to the resident secular clergy and 
stood between them and their sunshine. The sheathing of the 
original adobe walls with boards is perhaps more excusable; 
for ugly as it is, it at least has stopped the inroads of the 
weather, and the old walls remain, though unseen. 

It was very discouraging; but being there I resolved to see 
the adventure through, and as it was Sunday, I joined the 
string of worshipers who were straggling up the steps into the 

230 



church and through an open doorway, which bore over it the 
figures 1772. I do not remember that the interior possessed 
anything of noteworthy interest for me, except an elderly 
priest of fine, dignified presence, who preached the sermon. 
His English betrayed his Spanish nativity, and his exhorta- 
tion was delivered with vigor. "You are responsible, you 
parents," he charged, "for your children's being and for their 
souls, and what do I hear you are doing? Instead of sending 
them to Catholic schools, where they will be taught proper 
manners and respect for church and authority, you are letting 
them go, many of you, to secular schools. That is the same for 
their morals as being brought up in the street, or running wild 
in the hills. Do you realize that as parents you must answer 
to God in the last day for your children's everlasting condi- 
tion? " He was a grandfatherly sort of man with convictions, 
and I felt in listening to him that peculiar refreshment of 
spirit which comes over most of us on hearing our neighbor 
hauled over the coals. 

After the service I strolled along the terrace in front of the 
living-quarters, and came by and by to a door on which was 
tacked a card of invitation to visitors to ring the bell for 
admittance. The housekeeper admitted me into the cool 
twilight of a hallway whose adobe walls were of the familiar 
Mission thickness, and left me standing while she went for the 
sacristan. Since Sunday is a busy day at a parish church, I 
suppose I had no business to intrude myself as a sight-seer, 
and a priest who passed through the hall as I waited probably 
thought so too, if I am to judge from a sourishness that 
seemed to flavor his salutation to me. The sacristan, however, 
when he appeared, set me at ease with the most cordial of 
greetings. He was a young man, — a French Canadian, it 
transpired, — and he went joyously to work with me as 
though I were the very first he had ever had the privilege of 

231 



t'^t Cafifomia ^abtre^ 



convoying over the place. What I was expected to see, it 
seems, were certain relics in the sacristy and in an adjoining 
room at the rear of the church. To reach these he led me a 
rapid march through the garden, really a charming nook, of 
which I should have liked to see more, with a modern palm 
tree or two, an arbored walk where vines of Mission grapes 
cast a meditative shade, and the perfume of roses sweetened 
the air. Beyond I caught sight of a kitchen garden, and the 
whole was shut out from the world by high adobe walls and 
the Mission itself. 

In the relic rooms the guide went at his business hammer 
and tongs. For professional enthusiasm I have never seen his 
equal. His utterance was exceedingly rapid, and he seemed 
possessed with a sort of apostolic fervor as though he saw in 
his job a chance to save my soul. He quickly smoked me out 
as a heretic of some mild type and set to to leave me, if possi- 
ble, better instructed than he found me. There was indeed a 
rather rich collection of relics, though ill arranged. I remem- 
ber, for instance, a wooden box with front doors, Hke a cup- 
board, crudely carved and gaudily colored by Indians. This, 
my young friend told me once occupied a space on the old 
altar, and served as a tabernacle, "That," said he, "is the 
center of the CathoHc religion " ; and then gave me a disserta- 
tion on the mystery of the mass, with Scripture to establish his 
points. Then there was an ancient wooden cross said to have 
been used when the first mass was said at San Luis, "for you 
can't say mass without a cross," I was assured; and there was 
a quaint little wooden cradle with a canopy, wherein lay a 
wooden image of the infant Saviour. It was placed in the 
church on Christmas Eve, and before it many an adoring 
Indian had knelt in days gone by. Then, too, there were nu- 
merous silver chalices and candlesticks, and other altar uten- 
sils; altar cloths of linen, and silken canopies; priests' vest- 

232 



ments magnificently embroidered in rich designs of flowers 
and butterflies in gold and silver on colored silks by Sisters 
in the convents of Spain : their contributions to the propa- 
gation of the faith in the Indies. These and many another 
thing were reverently shown me, and their uses and symbol- 
isms explained in great detail, but at such a verbal hand-gallop 
as made my brain spin. I should have liked to remember more, 
for the lecture was really interesting; but somewhere in the 
midst of it I became rather hypnotized from watching this 
intense young man with a seraphic face and "can't bust-em" 
overalls drawn temporarily over his Sunday suit. As he 
talked, his head was bent in reverence, his eyes fixed on space 
as though seeing something beyond this world of sense, his 
face now and then irradiated with a smile. His lips, the while, 
moved Hke the paddles of a mill-wheel under the pressure of 
his torrential speech, and occasionally they spat droplets of 
moisture. He wound up by presenting me with a squat little 
volume in yellow paper covers entitled ''Catholic Belief"; 
and I am free to say, if I die outside the bosom of the Holy 
Catholic Church, it will not be the fault of that delightful 
sacristan of San Luis Obispo. 

As I emerged from the cloistral shades of the sacristy into 
the little garden's heavenly sunshine and the companionship 
of its ministrant lilies, it felt good to be free again. Yet he was 
a kindly young man, profusely thankful on the Church's 
behalf for the small fee I left in his hand, and I am sure the 
love of God and of man was supreme in his heart. A good 
Catholic hinted to me afterward that his heart was thought 
to be sounder than his head ; but is not that the world's usual 
estimate of enthusiasts? 

I was gratified to find in San Luis Obispo a street called 
Osos, showing that that famous Canada of the Bears is held 
worthy of memory still. I learned, moreover, that the valley 

233 



^^ CaCifotmia ^cibxt^ 



itself is of easy access; so I set out for it afoot by a street that 
leads northward from the Mission through land once the 
Padres' gardens, but now cut into town lots, where rose- 
embowered cottages are sprinkled about, children play tag, 
and the domestic virtues flourish. In a pasture I had sight of a 
hoary olive tree which a San Luiseno told me had been set out 
by the Fathers, the only remnant, I believe, of their once 
extensive olive yard which De Mofras states rivaled in size 
the best in Andalusia. So, to the outskirts of the town and 
the foot of a steep cone-shaped hill, which rose like a watch- 
tower from the midst of the plain. This I had learned would 
be a proper vantage-point from which to view the Canada. 
On the map the hill is called Cerro San Luis Obispo, but 
colloquially it is San Luis Mountain, and a popular resort on 
Sundays and holidays for such as are sound in wind and limb 
and have a taste for aerial adventure. I found it, indeed, a 
stiff climb by a dusty, stony, zigzag trail, at times as steep as 
a high-pitched roof; but nee palma sine pulvere, and the 
crown was worth the dusty struggle. 

Below me lay the little town nestling amid trees and 
flowers and oil tanks, and at the heart of it the Mission quad- 
rangle, out of which the strident voice of those terrible bells 
broke in brief outcry — made tolerable by distance, though 
still hardly musical. To the west lay La Canada de los Osos, 
dreamy that day under a thin veil of ocean mist, and stretch- 
ing to the beach six or eight miles away where a deliberate 
surf came and went in intermittent gleams of white. Where 
the bears were hunted and the Indian rancherias stood, is now 
a sunlit, wind-swept countryside with here and there a ranch- 
house in its little bower of trees. Seaward rises the hump of 
Point Buchon, linked with the Mission past. Crespi tells us 
that when the Portola expedition of 1769 camped in the 
neighborhood of the present San Luis Obispo, they found 

234 



anb t^txx QHi00ion0 



there a rancheria of Indians whose chief was afflicted with 
a huge tumor or goitre. The soldiers, in characteristic fash- 
ion, at once dubbed him "El Buchon," which is Spanish for 
such a swelling, and apphed the same name to the native 
village. The latter has long since gone, but the hill near 
which it stood fell heir to the title and bids fair to hold it 
so long as the good California custom persists of respecting 
the old historic names. Kind Padre Crespi, who had more 
interest in the poor fellow's soul than in his physical abnor- 
maHties, piously christened the place San Ladislao, in 
order that this saint "should be his patron and protector for 
his conversion." 



't^t CaCifomia ^Cibxt$ 
II 

Fray Luis the Light-Hearted 

^f^HE story of the Missions does not, in its nature, show us 
^^ much of the lighter side of life. It is true that the gen- 
eral impression that history gives of the life led by the Span- 
ish-Californians in the later part of the Mission period is one 
of almost idyllic ease in a lotus-land of vast, sun-swept ran- 
chos: but the lot of the Padres, struggling day by day with the 
burden of their ignorant and often troublesome charges, was 
well-nigh as dull and unattractive as any field of labor can 
show. To the necessary cares of the missionaries were added 
others born of the friction that usually existed between them 
and the political and military heads of the province: so that 
the story in detail makes somewhat melancholy reading. It 
comes, then, as a real boon when the student gets a glimpse, 
here and there, of some rattling Father O'Flynn whose heart, 
banded with triple brass, refuses to down, and thumps merrily 
under his garb of solemn gray, let happen what will. 

Welcome, then, Fray Luis Antonio Martinez, of San Luis 
Obispo, Fray Luis of that ilk, as one may call thee. I think 
the good St. Francis, blithest, humanest of saints, would 'have 
been glad to know thee and to number thee among his band, 
and would have had but gentle words of rebuke, if any, for 
thy exuberances. After all, the sky is as blue over San Luis 
as above Assisi, where the Apostle of God's Open Air caroled 
his cheerful lay to Brother Sun. 

It is not much that history tells of Fray Luis, but all we 
know runs to the same effect as showing his unconventional 
character. It was in 1818 that the pirate Bouchard made a 
descent, with two ships, upon the almost defenseless coast of 

236 



anb i^txx ^mxon& 



California. After a more or less successful attack on Monte- 
rey, the capital, he sailed southward and sacked the rancho of 
Nuestra Senora del Refugio, near Santa Barbara. Fray Luis 
rose to the occasion. From his Mission, some hundred miles 
from the scene of pillage, he wrote to his friend Jose de la 
Guerra y Noriega, comandante at Santa Barbara, to this 
brave effect : — 

" If I had but two cannon I should have the ships; but there 
is nothing, so I shall content myself with doing what I can 
and as long as I can. There are horses enough for flight, even 
as far as New Mexico, when I leave the Mission burned to 
the foundations. Live, Fernando, while we are alive! Live, 
Holy Church and our native country, even if we all die!" 

He had at the first alarm sent a detachment of his Indians 
to the help <Si Governor Sola at Monterey. Now, leaving a 
sick-bed, he hurried with thirty-five volunteers to join De la 
Guerra at Santa Barbara, and thence marched with the de- 
fending force as far as San Juan Capistrano, some three hun- 
dred miles from his starting-point, where (in the words of 
Sola's report to the Viceroy of Mexico) "he animated all to 
defend the rights of the sovereign and their own homes." 

It may be a surprise to logical minds to encounter Fray 
Luis next in the role of friend and patron of smugglers. Under 
the narrow policy of the Spanish Government, trade between 
California ports and foreign vessels was strictly prohibited. 
At the same time the province itself produced hardly any- 
thing beyond hides, tallow, and grain, so that for almost every 
manufactured article its civilized people were dependent upon 
the occasional visit of a supply ship from San Bias. Here was 
a state of things that plainly invited, indeed necessitated, 
smuggling, and Mr. George Washington Eayrs, in the ship 
Mercury, of Boston, duly appeared to fill the need. The 
islands off the southern California coast made most conven* 

237 

% 



^^t Ca^ifotttta ^0ibxt0 



ient points for illicit trade, and we may guess that the lovely 
bay of Avalon, in Santa Catalina Island, now prime haunt of 
tourist and angler, was, a century ago, a favorite rendezvous 
for the exchange of hides and tallow for the more refined ar- 
ticles of trade craved by seiiora, caballero, and even Padre un- 
der vow to Lady Poverty. Letters are extant that make it 
plain that certain of the Fathers at the Missions succumbed 
to temptation; and Uttle blame, indeed, is it that they did so. 
One does not look in vain for the name of Fray Luis among 
the candidates for Mr. Eayrs's commodities. Here is a letter, 
which bears evidence, moreover, that it was not the first com- 
munication to pass between them: — 

Friend Don Jorge, Greeting. I expect you to dine with 
me at the ranch-house. Come with this vaquero, and we will 
talk of what is interesting in the news from Europe and the 
whole world. We will also trade, unless you bring things as 
dear as usual. The boy says that you asked him why I was 
out of humor with you, and I say I am out of humor with no- 
body. Adios. Since I do not know what you bring, I ask 
nothing; and since you say nothing, I get nothing. 

Your friend, Q. B. T. M., 
Fr. Luis. 

Let us hope that the dinner and the trading were satisfac- 
tory on both sides. As for the talk, Httle doubt that it was 
interesting enough. How one would like to have been posted 
behind the door of the dining-room that evening! 

Something of a figure, too. Fray Luis would cut when he 
had occasion to take the road, as when he convoyed his mule- 
trains of Mission produce to Monterey. The story goes that 
he took good care that on such occasions the dignity of his 
"San Luisito" (little San Luis), as he endearingly called his 

238 



Mission by the Valley of the Bears, took no damage in the 
eyes of the world. His pack-mules were ever of the sleekest; 
his Indian arrieros and servants, in their uniforms of blue 
Mission cotton, better dressed than the average Spanish- 
CaHfornian of the day; and the portly Padre himself (dis- 
tinguished, we learn, by a big nose bent to one side of his 
good-natured face) headed the caravan in some sort of prim- 
itive gig or calesa, with beribboned Indians for postilions and 
outriders. 

Let it not be supposed, however, that stout Fray Luis was 
simply and solely a man of the ty^Q of the Friar of Orders 
Gray of the old ballad. From other letters and from history 
we get a view of our Padre which calls for the respect due to 
a man of high principle. We find him writing with passionate 
earnestness against the laxity of religious belief which was a 
feature of the period, and which had then lately been exem- 
pUfied in so extreme a form in France, during the Revolution. 
And to this side of his character was allied, not unnaturally, 
a consistency in politics which was quite unbending, and 
which brought him into a long course of trouble with the au- 
thorities, ending in his forcible deportation from the Mission 
he had served for thirty years, and from California. Upon 
the revolt of Mexico from Spain, which culminated in 182 1, 
the Provincial Government in California naturally accepted 
the new order, and the Spaniards, military, civil, and ecclesi- 
astical, in the province were required to take oath of allegiance 
to the Mexican State, at first nominally an Empire, then a 
Republic. There was little or no objection among the two 
first-named classes of the population, but many of the priests 
refused to abjure their loyalty to the King of Spain. There 
is nothing to show that they, or any of them, made, or in- 
tended to make, difficulties for the new regime, but naturally 
they fell under suspicion. Among these loyalists we find, 

239 



without surprise, the sturdy figure of Fray Luis, and upon 
him it was that the brunt of the trouble fell. Probably he was 
indiscreet, and did not take special pains to keep his senti- 
ments to himself. We may guess him to be the kind of man 
who would drink to "The King over the Water," whoever 
might be the company at table; though, after all, the worst we 
hear from him is, " Go to, with your Republic!" But in 1829 
there occurred a miniature rebellion headed by one Juan 
Soils, and Fray Luis was accused of complicity in this opera- 
bouffe affair. It gave the authorities the handle they wanted, 
and Governor Echeandia straightway had him arrested and 
taken to Santa Barbara. 

A forcible though dignified remonstrance against being sent 
to Mexico for trial resulted in his being permitted to leave the 
country on his word of honor to retire direct to Spain. He 
was placed on board an English ship, and there we take fare- 
well of good Fray Luis but for a letter, written by him to a 
friend in Lima, soon after his arrival in Spain. In it he says 
that he sadly misses his old California friends; and he mourn- 
fully remarks that everything at home is strange and differ- 
ent from the former days, so that now he cannot feel at ease 
in Madrid. And he adds a reflection that, no doubt, has found 
a counterpart in the experience of many another home-return- 
ing wanderer — that one who has spent thirty years in the 
New World can never again settle down in the Old. Poor 
Fray Luis ! But we may hope that in his old age he had the 
happiness to meet again some of his California brother-mis- 
sionaries, several of whom were driven, like himself, to seek 
a refuge from political molestation in their native land. So 
let us picture him finally as again Fray Luis the light-hearted, 
flourishing for many a year in his native Asturias, and racily 
recounting to loyal Spanish ears the story of his wrongs and 
his exploits in far-off, barbarous Cahfornia. 

240 



While on the topic of the unconventional spirits who ap- 
pear in the annals of the Padres, we must allow ourselves a 
reference to those two roysterers, Padres Mariano Rubi and 
Bartolome Gili, who ran a brief but meteoric career at — 
most inappropriately — the Mission of Nuestra Seiiora Dolo- 
rosisima de la Soledad. These blackest of black sheep came 
like most of the other early California Padres, to this dis- 
tant province from the Franciscan Missionary College of San 
Fernando, at Mexico City, evidently with a hearty "good 
riddance" for farewell. We quote from a letter of complaint 
against them, written by the Guardian of the College to the 
Viceroy: — 

"Avery short time after their arrival from Spain, Fathers 
Rubi and Gili manifested disgust for the regular Hfe, repug- 
nance for the laudable customs of this Apostolic College, and 
regret for having come. Finding no other excuse for with- 
drawing from the religious exercises, they took advantage of 
the charity with which our infirmary treats the sick and in- 
firm, as far as its poverty permits. Pretending to be suffering 
from ills which in reality they had not, they retired to this 
asylum, where they passed the days in sleep and idleness and 
the nights disturbing the rest of those who, having labored 
during the day, needed rest and sleep during the night. The 
reports are filled with the excesses which these two, like sons 
of darkness, committed. Among them the worst are that 
they loosened the bolts to rob the storerooms; broke, not only 
once, the jars containing the chocolate of the community; 
stole from said room the small kettles to beat them for drums ; 
took away the balls which the community used for pastime 
on recreation days, and rolled them through the dormitories 
at unseemly hours of the night, on various occasions, causing 
terror and confusion to the religious. Finally, they scaled the 
walls of the College, and went out, scarcely for the sake of 

241 



^^t CaCifotJuta ^abt^e^ 



performing some act of virtue. They make no meditation 
and do not appear in choir." And so on. 

There is something uncommonly refreshing in the thought 
of that row of reverend shaven pates, starting from their snug 
pillows with looks of "terror and confusion" at the racket of 
those unseasonable games of bowls. Really, some one ought 
to paint that scene. And it would be a pleasure to forgive the 
jokers, if only there were nothing more shameful in evidence. 
Unfortunately there is, though it is not necessary to record 
it here. 

An ingenious demon he must have been who was respon- 
sible for this unconscionable pair ever entering the priesthood. 
Probably it was the same imp who put it into their heads 
that the Missions of California would be a promising field for 
their special gifts. (By the way, Rubi appears to have been 
a musician, for we find him referred to as "the organist." 
California at that time boasted no organs, except a barrel- 
organ contributed in 1793 by Vancouver to the Mission of 
Carmel ; so that here the soothing charms of music were denied 
the prankish priest, though, indeed, they seem to have had 
little efficacy at the College.) Anyhow, the two rascals appear 
on our scene about the year 1790, and after a short stay at 
Mission San Antonio were transferred to Soledad. How happy 
they made the life of Padre Garcia, the missionary in charge, 
can be as easily imagined as described. We read of Gili hav- 
ing four quarrels in public with him, and learn without sur- 
prise that the twin disturbers of the general peace were soon 
at odds between themselves. "Always grumbling, always 
restless; agreeing with no one and not even with each other! " 
— so writes Father Lasuen. However, their course was soon 
run. Before the end of 1793 we find Rubi — clerical titles 
seem quite too incongruous with these scapegraces — back 
like a bad penny at his College in the City of Mexico, and 

242 



requesting to be sent to Tampico. Of Gili we take leave in 
the following year in the capacity of chaplain on a vessel that 
is bearing him, against his will, to the Philippines. 

In conclusion, another incident, but in quieter vein, of the 
humors of the Padres. To a proclamation of Governor Borica, 
in 1794, requiring the priests to refrain from dealings with 
foreign vessels. Padre Diego Garcia replies from his Mission 
of Soledad, some forty miles away from tide-water, that "It 
will give him pleasure to comply with the order if Divine 
Providence should ever favor this inland Mission with a 
harbor." So it is good to note that the Padre, whom we 
just now saw quarreling with his two unruly brethren, has 
recovered his good humor and is ready for a little joke. 



SAN MIGUEL ARCANGEL 




•S n(i., •,'•• V,-' 



Mission San Miguel Arcangel and the Case of 
THE Gentile Guchapa 

^T is quite conceivable that if I had no other home under 
^ heaven than a darkling adobe room in the mouldering 
convento of a lonely Mission, and between my parochial calls 
lived there by myself among my books and the ghosts of the 
past, with an old housekeeper across the hall to cook my meals 
and darn my stockings and show the church to the curious 
comers and goers and keep them from picnicking in the corri- 
dors and from scattering discarded lunch-boxes and chew- 
ing-gum wrappers about — under such circumstances, I say, 
it is entirely likely that I, too, would be crusty; that I, too, 
would put up such a sign at my wicket as the resident priest 
has displayed at the wicket to the Mission of that Most Glori- 
ous Prince of the Heavenly MiKtia, St. Michael, Archangel. 
The notice is in plain English, for the Spanish-speaking visi- 
tors at San Miguel are doubtless good Catholics, who do not 
need this special sort of instruction. It reads: — 

Mission San Miguel. 

Founded July 25, 1797. 

Parish Church of St. Michael, Archangel, 

and 

Residence of Pastor. 

Strictly Private 

As home of Any Other Person. 

Not a Public Park. 

Visitors and Callers Welcome. Visitors and Callers 

Should Announce themselves. Please enter and Strike the 

Old Mission Bell. 

247 



^^t Cafifovnia ^cibxtB 



It was not altogether cordial, but, on the other hand, it was 
a sort of invitation. Moreover, it improved on re-reading; 
for really it was reasonable, and imparted a good deal of in- 
formation in small compass. So I passed through the gate 
with meekness and struck the old Mission bell, which I found 
hanging in a wooden frame near a corner of the church wall. 
Another bell, which swings in the upper air at the top of a tall, 
inconceivably ugly, spider-legged tower, planted impudently 
before the church entrance, you are not to molest. I suppose 
there was a reason for putting up that discordant sort of cam- 
panario, all iron legs and ribs like a little Eiffel Tower; but it 
certainly was not for art's sake. Save for this awkward blot 
upon its entrance, the Mission would be genuinely attractive, 
with its roofs of old red tile and its picturesque white corri- 
dors with their arches of assorted shapes and sizes, and a 
quaint old-timey tile chimney. The situation on the outskirts 
of the Uttle town of San Miguel, which is also a railway sta- 
tion, makes the Mission of easiest accessibihty. 

While waiting for some response to my summons, I was 
edified by reading another notice posted at a side entrance 
to the church. Evidently the poor rector of San Miguel has 
had his troubles with the unregenerate who come a-calling 
at his Mission out of curiosity; and he is not the man to suf- 
fer in silence. This notice proved to be a rather comprehen- 
sive essay on conduct in church; and comprised injunctions 
against men appearing therein in their shirt sleeves or hats, 
and against women entering with uncovered heads. Smoking, 
I beHeve, was also interdicted, and loud talking; and certain 
other details of behavior (which I have now forgotten, but 
which at the time I thought none but savages would have 
needed lecturing about) were explained as becoming or un- 
becoming, as the case might be. 

I had about digested this sermon, when a cheerfulj little old 

248 



woman, of housekeeperly aspect, came from one of the con- 
vento rooms, her keys jingKng as she walked, and, bidding 
me a pleasant good-morning, ushered me into the cool twi- 
light of the church. The interior proved very attractive. The 
old square-brick tiling of the floor was worn into hollows and 
humps by the tread of generations, and the walls were elabor- 
ately decorated in the primitive style and gaudy tones that 
bore evidence of Indian artists having contributed largely 
to the adornment.^ There was a charming old wall pulpit 
with a sounding-board suspended above it like a candle ex- 
tinguisher about to drop; a cell-like confessional built in the 
thick adobe wall; and an ancient wood ceiHng, supported 
by hewn timber beams, the ends resting on carved brackets 
embedded in adobe. The altar was adorned with a painted 
wooden statue of the Archangel, and over him a huge sun-like 
carving of gilded wood, radiating gilt spokes, symbolized, I be- 
lieve, the omnividency of God. All this, in the half light from 
an occasional little window well up under the roof, was as an 
old Mission should be, and I was touched into forgetfulness, 
if not of forgiveness, of that unspeakable skeleton of a bell 
tower without. There seemed a dearth of relics for display. 
At least, my ama de Haves vouchsafed me nothing that I re- 
member, except a baptismal font of no great interest to me 
and some worm-eaten confessional chairs of still less. She had 
real joy, though, in calling my attention to the print of a 
dog's foot impressed on a floor-tile by the door. 

"An Indian dog stepped there while the mud was soft, do 
you see?" she explained. "A many years ago — an Indian 
dog, mind you, was n't it funny?" 

^ Mr. G. W. James, in an interesting chapter on "Interior Decoration" 
in his In and Out of the Old Franciscan Missions of California, states that the 
decorations of San Miguel church were done by a Spaniard named Murros, 
under the oversight of the Fathers and with the assistance of neophytes. 

249 



't^t CaCifomia ^cibxt^ 



The sight of it seemed to give her as fresh an enjoyment as 
though she had just observed it. 

A glance at the map shows that San Miguel Hes almost due 
west from the upper end of the San Joaquin Valley, a region 
once noted for boglands abounding in tules or bulrushes to 
such an extent that it was called by the Spaniards the '' Tu- 
lares," or Place of the Rushes. It was a famous stronghold of 
unreconstructed Indians, who found good Hving on the water- 
fowl that infested the lagoons and on the tule pollen which was 
a dainty item in the aboriginal dietary. Later these Indians 
lived still better on horseflesh, for which they mercilessly 
raided the centrally situated Missions, such as San Miguel 
and San Luis Obispo. The Tulares were just far enough 
away to be comfortably safe from the Mission soldiers and 
yet near enough to make the raids not too fatiguing to 
the Tularenos. Furthermore, when Mission life became too 
irksome to the more restless neophytes, and the call of the 
wild became irresistible, such backsliders had a way of tak- 
ing French leave and making for the Tulares. The region 
naturally had a bad name at the Missions, one old Padre 
pleasantly stigmatizing it as "a republic of hell and a diaboli- 
cal union of apostates." It seemed, therefore, to the doughty 
soldiers of the Cross, a suitable place for systematic campaign- 
ing and the possible establishment of a new Mission. With 
this in view, two or three expeditions were made by the Padres 
into that kingdom of the devil, the leadership in such entradas 
being San Miguel's, as the nearest Mission. Nothing further 
came of them, however, than drumming up recruits for the 
existing estabhshment. One of these reconnoissances was 
in 1804, in charge of Padre Juan Martin; and I take it, it was 
on that outing he had the famous adventure with Guchapa. 
Guchapa was a hard-shell Gentile of much influence in his 
neighborhood; and Padre Juan, who was the sort of diplomat 

250 



that believes in going straight to headquarters and the point, 
ingenuously requisitioned the old chief for a supply of young 
Indians to make Christians of. Guchapa refused, using what 
appears to have been very intemperate language; expressed 
his contempt for friars and soldiers, who, he argued with some 
show of logic, were nobody to be afraid of, for did they not 
die the same as Indians? And he wound up by ordering 
Padre Juan and his little ragged escort out of the country. 

The Padre, on returning to San Miguel, reported the mat- 
ters to the military comandante of the district, who thought 
the dignity of Catholic Spain required that this red Douglas 
should be brought to knee. Accordingly a sergeant with thir- 
teen leather jackets and gunpowder enough for a demonstra- 
tion, was dispatched to humble his pride. There was a hvely 
fight, which resulted in the capture of Guchapa, who was 
brought into the Mission. Here his views about the gente de 
razon became a good deal modified; and upon promising to 
send some young Indians down he was permitted to return to 
his rancheria, with a pocketful of glass beads. Bancroft, from 
whom I take the story, says that his promise was "to send 
back all Christian fugitives within his jurisdiction" — which, 
if all that was got from him, would indicate that the old hea- 
then had held his own pretty well in the camp of his enemies. 
On the whole,' Guchapa's case stands out quite refreshingly, 
in the general record of weak-kneed apathy that historians 
attribute to most of the California Gentiles. 

Padre Martin was San Miguel's most noted missionary, if 
we except poor Fray Concepcion, who went crazy and in- 
sisted on the soldiers shooting off their guns and -the neophytes 
their arrows at a rate that would soon have turned missionary ■ 
life into one grand Donnybrook fair, had he not been taken in 
hand rather promptly and transported. Martin's term lasted 
from the day of the founding in 1797 until 1824, when his 

251 



't^t CaCifovnia ^abt:^0 

mortal frame was laid to rest in the Mission whose destinies he 
had guided, under Providence, for twenty-seven years. Much 
of that time he was the only friar in residence; but between 
1807 and 1 81 7, he had the cheery companionship of Padre 
Juan Cabot, brother to that Padre Pedro, "El Caballero," 
whom we buried at San Fernando. Fray Juan was nicknamed 
"El Marinero," (The Sailor), because of his bluff, frank man- 
ners. He had a big heart, and his hospitahty and jovial 
demeanor made him universally liked. After Padre Martin 
was called to his long home, it was Padre Cabot who was 
assigned to continue his work at San Miguel, and there he 
stayed until secularization. 

Temporally Mission San Miguel never ranked with the 
best. The land, though lying, much of it, in the fertile bottom 
of the upper Salinas Valley, yielded but stubbornly to mis- 
sionary treatment. There were hard frosts in winter and in 
siunmer a scorching heat. Robinson speaks of it in 1830 as 
"a poor establishment," the heat felt even by the fleas, which 
gasped for breath on the brick pavements! Secularization 
made quick work of what there was, if we are to believe Mrs. 
Ord's reminiscences; for she says that in 1835 she could not 
find even a tumbler on the premises to drink from. The 
present structure dates from about 1820. 

To make up to some extent for the agricultural deficiencies 
of the land immediate to the Missions, the San Miguel Padres 
availed themselves (after the fashion at other Missions) of 
sundry little fertile vales in the surrounding hills. There 
temporary colonies of neophytes, under the care of experi- 
enced Indians as mayordomos, were established. Fruit trees 
were set out, beans and grain sown, and herds and flocks 
tended. One of these outposts, Santa Margarita, was midway 
on the road to San Luis Obispo. Until recently there could be 
seen — and possibly still may be — some remnants of the 

252 



adobe storehouse, mayordomo's quarters and little chapel that 
once stood there. There, it is said, the priests from San 
Miguel and San Luis Obispo, during such periods as reduced 
those Missions temporarily to one missionary apiece, would 
sometimes arrange to meet, to make confession to each other. 



€^t CaCifovnia ^cibxt^ 
II 

The Tragedy of San Miguel 

^N the criminal annals of California during the troubled 
^ early years of American rule, no page is darker than that 
which tells the tale of the "great murder case," or, as it might 
well be called, the massacre, of San Miguel Mission. After 
sixty years the story is still current in the locality, and on a 
recent journey through central California I heard at least 
three quite different accounts of it. I am not keen on horrors, 
nor do I suppose my readers to be so, nor, certainly, is the 
charming and accomplished lady who related the facts to me: 
but the incident being a part of the actual history of the Mis- 
sion, I think it worth while to set down the plain and unem- 
broidered statement as I received it from the lips of the 
granddaughter of one of the persons chiefly concerned. 

We were sitting in the warm dusk of an August evening in 
the veranda of the hospitable home of Senor Leon Gil, in the 
oak-shaded foothills of the Santa Lucia Sierra. The talk had 
wandered from sport to local politics, from local politics to 
local history, and then to old California topics, a field in 
which my host and hostess, both descendants of old Spanish 
California families, were full of interesting matter. A chance 
reference to San Miguel Mission, which was not very far dis- 
tant, brought out the tragic history. Said the seiiora: — 

"It was in 1849, that eventful year for our dear California, 
that my grandfather, Don Petronelo Rios, was living close to 
the Mission of San Miguel. You will see the place, the old 
Rios ranch-house, when you visit the Mission. The priests 
had gone, for it was long after the secularization, and my 
grandfather, in partnership with an Englishman, Mr. Guil- 

254 



lermo Reed, — he was called by the people "El Piloto," be- 
cause he had formerly been a pilot, — grazed large numbers 
of sheep and cattle on the Mission lands. Mr. Reed lived with 
his family in the Mission itself, and incidentally the partners 
carried on a general merchandise business there, using some 
of the old rooms, and were doing a good trade with the miners 
who came in the great rush of that year to the placer diggings 
of the San Joaquin. 

"Mr. Reed, however, was not satisfied to be making money 
slowly in the course of business, while others on all hands 
were getting wealthy quickly at the mines. One day he said 
to my grandfather, 'Why should not we go to the mines, and 
get our share of what is going? All our acquaintances are 
getting rich while we are muddHng along here. I propose that 
we close up the merchandise business for a time, and go 
mining too.' My grandfather was an older man than Mr. 
Reed, and more cautious, so he was not very eager to go; but 
his partner persuaded him, and they wound up their affairs 
for the time, and went to the mines. 

"At the placers they did moderately well, but not by any 
means so well as Mr. Reed had hoped. He, however, partly 
for bluff and partly for a joke, used to pretend that they had 
struck it very rich — that is the funny American speech, is n't 
it? — and the story got about that the two had made lots of 
money, and had sacks and sacks of dust and nuggets hidden 
away. My grandfather often objected to Mr. Reed giving 
out this impression. 'Here we are,' he would say, 'among all 
kinds of wild fellows, and it is not wise to make all this talk 
of the money we are supposed to have. We are in danger of 
losing the little we have made.' But Mr. Reed only laughed, 
and always kept up the same kind of talk. 

"Before very long they got tired of the mines, and returned 
to the Mission with what gold they had. There they took up 

255 



€^§^ CaCtfotnia ^abxt^ 



again their former business. Soon afterward, my grandfather 
left there and moved over to Templeton. The Indians who 
lived about San Miguel were much attached to him, and they 
moved away with him, so the country was left very quiet and 
lonely. His partner was left in charge of their joint affairs. 

"One evening a party of men came to the Mission. There 
were three Americans, an Irishman, and an Indian who acted 
as guide. It turned out that the white men had known Mr. 
Reed and my grandfather at the mines, and Mr. Reed made 
them welcome accordingly. In the course of their conversa- 
tion he still kept up the pretense of their having made lots of 
money at the mines, and when the men asked how much they 
had, he replied, 'Oh, bags and bags of it! Why, that boy' — 
his wife's little brother, eight years old — 'can hardly lift the 
smallest sack ! ' 

"The miners were in no hurry to go. Mr. Reed made them 
very welcome, and they stayed some days about the place. 
At last they left, but the next day they returned, to buy some 
supplies, as they said. When they put down their money, 
which was in twenty-dollar pieces, Mr. Reed called to the 
boy to bring one of the little sacks of dust (still keeping up the 
pretense of having a great deal, you see), from which — the 
only one they had, as a matter of fact — he weighed out their 
change. He was a very sociable man, and again he kept them 
talking until it became so late that he suggested that they 
stay at the Mission for the night. 

"During the evening they all sat about the fire in the big 
room. The Indian was not there, for the other men treated 
him roughly and would not associate with him. The night 
was cold, and when the fire got low, one of the men said to 
another, 'You had better go and get some wood to make up 
the fire.' The man went out, and returned in a few moments 
with an armful of wood, hidden in which there was an axe. 

256 



Mxb t^dx Q|Ut00ton0 



He came behind Mr. Reed, who was laughing and joking with 
the others, and with one blow of the axe struck him dead. 
He did not utter a sound. 

"In the next room, which was a bedroom, were Mrs. Reed, 
her child, three years old, an old woman who was a sort of 
nurse in the family, the nurse's daughter, and the daughter's 
young child. They were getting ready for bed. The men 
broke into the room and with the same axe killed Mrs. Reed 
and the young woman. Meanwhile, the old nurse had caught 
up a heavy stick, and snatching the reboso from her head she 
wound it round her arm and bravely defended herself and her 
grandchild. Of course she had no chance against the four men, 
and she and the child were soon dead on the floor. The other 
child, who was sleeping on the bed, was awakened by the 
noise. One of the murderers caught sight of it, and made a 
blow at it with the axe through the bedclothes, which killed it 
and left a gash in the wall which I have been told can still be 
seen. 

"They went next to the kitchen, where the cook, who was 
a negro, was asleep. He had not been awakened, as the walls 
were so thick that they shut out all sound. They murdered 
him as he slept, and then went on to another room, where the 
sheep-herder and his grandson were sleeping. They killed 
them both in their beds. Then, after ransacking the building 
for the supposed gold which had been the motive for the 
terrible crime, and finding only a small quantity of dust, they 
dragged the bodies of the nine people they had murdered to 
the farthest room of the Mission, and threw them into a heap 
with the intention of burning them there. While they were 
carrying the bodies there they discovered Mrs. Reed's little, 
brother, who had hidden himself among some boxes on the, 
corridor. The boy had become friendly with the men during 
the days they had stayed there, and he clung to them and 

257 



t^^t CaCifomia ^abrea 



begged them not to hurt him. One of them, taking pity on 
him, tried to hide him behind himself, but the leader saw the 
action, and exclaimed, 'What is that you are hiding there? 
Do you want that brat to betray us? ' and he seized the boy 
and killed him by dashing his head against one of the pillars 
of the corridor. 

"By this time it was nearly daybreak, and it was necessary 
for the murderers to escape. So they took the great double 
doors of the church off their hinges and placed them as a 
barrier to prevent any one opening the door of the room 
where they had put the bodies. Then they took their horses 
from the corral and rode away to the south. At that time all 
the country about San Miguel was very thinly settled, and the 
murderers had left no one alive about the Mission. It was 
two days before the massacre was discovered. Then Mr. 
Branch, of Arroyo Grande, and Captain Pryce, of the Los 
Osos, who were both friends of Mr. Reed, happened to be on 
their way down from San Francisco. They noticed, as they 
rode past the Mission in the morning, that there was nobody 
about, and that the church doors were not in their place. 
Seeing that the cattle were still in the corrals. Captain Pryce 
went round to Mr. Reed's room and tapped at the window, 
calling out, 'Get up, you lazy fellow! Do you know what 
time it is? ' As he heard no reply, he pushed the shutter open, 
and then saw that the trunks were overturned and everything 
was in disorder. They knew that something was wrong, and 
rode on quickly to Templeton, which was five leagues away, 
where they told my grandfather what they had seen. He sent 
them on to San Luis Obispo for the officers, and when they 
came they all went on together to the Mission. There the 
awful crime was brought to light. 

"The night after the murders, the men had camped at my 
grandfather's place at Templeton, with the intention of kill- 

258 



ing him also, if necessary, in order to secure the gold which 
they had expected to get at Mr. Reed's. But on account of 
there being so many Indians about they were afraid to at- 
tempt it. One of the Indians went over, as Indians are apt to 
do, to the men's camp after they had left, and there picked up 
an earring, which he brought to Don Petronelo. He recog- 
nized it as one that he had often seen Mrs, Reed wearing, and 
was suspicious that there had been bad work at the Mission, 
even before Captain Pryce arrived with his news. 

"The officers from San Luis had been instructed not to 
attempt to take the men prisoners, but to shoot them imme- 
diately when found, as it was clear they were desperate, and 
would not hesitate to take more Uves. The Indian guide had 
left them and hidden himself after the murders, as he had 
heard them speak of killing him too, which no doubt they 
would have done when they no longer needed him. He was to 
have taken them by back trails to San Diego, and from there 
they meant to escape into Mexico. Through the guide's 
desertion they were obHged to travel by the roads. They were 
overtaken at the coast, near Gaviota, and two of them were 
killed on the spot. The leader ran out into the water, throw- 
ing from his pockets the gold they had taken at Mr. Reed's, 
and was drowned while the officers fired at him. The last 
man, who was the Irishman, surrendered and begged to be 
allowed to confess. It is from his statement that we have the 
particulars I have given you. When he had made his confes- 
sion he was shot. 

"It happened, many years after the murders," added the 
senora, "that Don Mariano Soberanes, of the Los Ojitos 
Ranch, was visiting us at our old home, the Rios ranch-house. 
Don Mariano chanced to see there an old Indian who was 
working for my grandfather. 'That is the Indian who was 
with those men who killed all the people at the Mission/ he 

259 



^^t CaCifotmia ^abxts 



said to my grandfather. It was true. It appeared that the 
men, while on their way to the Mission, had stopped at the 
Los Ojitos, and Don Mariano's notice had been attracted to 
them by the brutal manner in which they treated the Indian, 
whom they made kneel down to eat, instead of sitting with 
them at the table. Thus he recognized him so many years 
after. Don Petronelo told me, I remember, that he questioned 
the Indian about the matter, but that he always acted as if 
'loco,' and could never be induced to say anything about it. 
At every mention of the murders he always became wildly 
excited, and seemed to be under the influence of the greatest 
terror." 

Such is the story of the tragedy of San Miguel Mission, a 
notable warning against that Golden Tempter from whose 
wiles the good St. Francis wisely tried to shield his followers 
and companions in the Way of Poverty. " Verdaderamente, 
Don Diner es gran criminoso " (Truly, Don Dinero [money] 
is a great criminal), murmured Don Leon, as we rose to go 
to bed. 



SAN ANTONIO DE PADUA 










•-.. ;^^' 



Mission San Antonio of the Oaks and the 
Tradition of the Friar Who flew thither 

7^0 reach San Antonio from San Miguel, one goes first to 
^^ Jolon, a mountain hamlet six miles from the Mission; 
and to attain Jolon, an automobile stage may be taken at 
King City, after a comfortable country dinner at the hotel 
across from the railway station. It was late afternoon when 
the stage delivered me, so I reserved until the morrow the 
adventure of this Mission of a wilderness still almost as 
primitive as when the establishment was founded. 

It is a delightful walk thither from Jolon. For a mile or 
two the road passes an occasional ranch-house, and then 
enters by a gate the lands of the great Milpitas cattle ranch. 
Stately native oak trees stand everywhere about, set at lib- 
eral distances from one another, and forming a sparse sort 
of forest in whose grassy glades the cattle of Milpitas graze 
and ruminate while the pasture lasts. Because of the preva- 
lence of these trees, the Padres called the region " La Canada 
de los Robles," (the Valley of the Deciduous Oaks) ; and in 
time the Mission came to be tagged in familiar speech with 
the same "de los Robles" as a locative — that is, San An- 
tonio de Padua of the Oaks. 

After four miles, my road emerged from the oaks into a 
broad sequestered amphitheater, at the western side of which, 
outlined against the blue of the sierra, the fagade of the Mis- 
sion reflected the morning sun. It is a lonely situation, but 
an altogether lovely one. The first Spaniards called it before 

263 



^^t CaCifovnta ^abte^ 



there was a Mission here, "La Joy a de la Sierra de Santa 
Lucia " ; and its utter seclusion from the world of man puts San 
Antonio in a class by itself among the Missions — islanded 
in one of those huge, privately owned cattle estates, of which 
many still remain in California to furnish texts to our social- 
istic philosophers. With the exception of one of the Milpitas 
ranch buildings, half hidden in trees on a near-by hilltop, there 
is nothing to suggest the present republic of the Gringo. It 
might still be 177 1, and gray-gowned,^ limping Padre Juni- 
pero with his companions, Fray Pieras and Fray Sitjar, his 
file of soldados de cuera, and his pack-train of mules loaded 
with provision, church bells, and ecclesiastical furniture, 
might be descending that hill before us, just arriving from 
Monterey. San Diego is two years old; San Carlos has lately 
been founded; and here is to be established the third of these 
recruiting stations for Heaven, on the devil's frontier. 

It was midsummer when Serra's Httle company arrived 
here, and the charming mountain valley had not altogether 
lost the freshness of the early year; the little river was running 
plentifully enough to give assurance of an unfailing flow for 
irrigating the fertile bottom lands; and we can imagine the 
sunny air, sweet then, as on July days now, with the breath 
of mint and sage crushed by the passing foot, and musical 
with the call of mourning doves and the hum of the wild bees. 
A frenzy of enthusiasm seized Serra. Ordering the mules 
unloaded and a bell swung from the branch of a tree, he 
caught the rope, and ringing furiously, cried in ecstasy: — 

^ The Franciscans as we see them now in California are always robed in 
brown. This was not formerly so, the brown uniform dating from an edict of 
Pope Leo XIII, issued a generation or so ago. St. Francis prescribed only a 
"poor color." In Spain this was always gray, and such, of course, was the color 
the order brought to Mexico. Later, when the Fathers did their own weaving 
in the wilderness, they had to cut their coats according to their cloth, and their 
coarse gowns were of such wool as their sheep produced, — gray, brown, and 
even black. 

264 



"0 Gentiles, come, come, to Holy Church! Come, come, 
receive the faith of Jesus Christ!" 

There were no Indians in sight, and as yet no church, and 
the Father's prosier companions, apparently as nonplussed 
as Don Quixote's squire when that doughty knight persis- 
tently mistook the nose on the face of life, remonstrated with 
him for his outburst; but he only said: — 

"Let me give expansion to my heart. Would to God the 
voice of this bell might resound through the whole world . . . 
could be heard at least by all the Indians in these moun- 
tains." 

Then they set about founding the Mission. The proceed- 
ings were much the same on aU such occasions. That the loca- 
tion might be purged of any lingering little devils of darkness 
there was sprinkling with holy water, a large wooden cross 
was made, blessed, venerated, and erected; and a bower of 
leafy boughs cut from trees at hand was built for a chapel, 
in which a plain table was set to serve for an altar. Here mass 
was said and a sermon preached in honor of the Mission's 
patron saint. The audience as a rule on such occasions was 
limited to the soldiers of the guard, the muleteers, and such 
christianized Indian servants as had been brought along 
with the expedition. The savages at the founding, particu- 
larly of the earlier Missions, were generally too much per- 
turbed at the advent of the strangers and their outlandish 
doings to venture near for some time. Here at the founding 
of San Antonio, however, when Serra turned from the altar 
to preach to his little assembly, his delighted eyes were 
greeted with the sight of one astonished Gentile looking on. 
This "first offering of GentiUsm " he took for a good omen, and 
so it proved; for the San Antonenos were very hospitable to 
the faith. Perhaps a certain tradition prevalent among them 
helped in the matter. One day an old Gentile woman came 

265 



^^t CaCtfomia ^abte« 



to the Mission craving baptism; and upon being asked why 
she would become a Christian, her answer was: ''When I 
was a child, my father used to tell that there came a man to 
our country, wearing a dress such as you Padres wear; but 
traveling neither afoot nor a-horseback, but over the hills 
flying. And he taught our people the same sayings you teach 
now. And in my old age I have remembered, and I too would 
be a Christian." 

The missionaries took the tale with a grain of salt at first, 
but finding on inquiry that the neophytes confirmed the 
tradition, they concluded their present labors might, indeed, 
be in the nature of watering seed sown a couple of centuries 
before by some missionary from New Mexico. 

San Antonio Mission to-day, while sadly ruined, is by no 
means hopelessly so. There is a substantial and picturesque 
facade of red Mission brick showing through a scaling coat 
of plaster, dating from about 1810 — for the present edifice 
is the third. The original site was a mile or two farther to 
the east on the Rio San Antonio. The thick adobe walls of 
the church are held together by iron braces, and a shingle 
roof, put on some years ago by the Landmarks Club, has 
considerably arrested the inroads of the weather. Outside 
of the church matters are going to the bad more rapidly. 
Still one can trace in the broken walls and crumbling mounds 
much of the ancient plan; and there is a remnant of the 
Padres' old garden still, where a ragged corporal's guard of 
ancient pear trees, rosebushes, pomegranates, and what-not, 
suggest what has been. De Mofras says that travelers from 
the North got at San Antonio their first taste of the South — 
orange trees, palms, and cotton growing on its lands. The 
old irrigation system, too, is much undisturbed, and not only 
is it interesting to the archaeological mind, but two undis- 
turbed reservoirs, with their brick retaining walls built into 

266 







s S 



the hillsides, are still sound enough for the Milpitas ranch 
people to put to use. 

The interior of the church is entirely dismantled. A rough 
table of planks blocked with drippings of candles was evidence, 
however, at the time of my visit, that some religious service 
had been held there not long before. It seems that every 13th 
of June, St. Anthony's Day, it is customary to have a fiesta 
at the Mission. Then the priest from King City comes up, 
mass is said, and the paisanos, from the surrounding country 
for miles, make hoHday. For the rest of the year, the church is 
given over to the bats, the owls, and the swallows (who have a 
fancy for its protecting eaves to build their mud nests under), 
and such occasional visitors as myself. 

Coming from the ruins I was startled to see an automobile 
stopped before the church, and in it a sweet-faced old lady 
who smiled a greeting to me. She introduced herself, and I 
recognized the name of one of whom somebody at Jolon had 
spoken, as knowing more about San Antonio Mission than 
any one else in the neighborhood. 

"Yes," she said, "when I came into this country — you 
passed our ranch just outside of Jolon — there was not an- 
other white woman nearer than Monterey. We had mail 
only once or twice a month, and it was very dull, sometimes; 
so I would come to the Mission for society. There was a resi- 
dent priest then. Father Ambris, a very nice man. The coun- 
try was such a wilderness the Mission seemed like civilization 
to me ; and though I was an Episcopalian, I got very friendly 
with the priest and we arranged to rent some of the rooms, 
and I lived here for two years. That was about 1859 or i860, 
and things wqtq in good order then. One of my granddaughters 
was born here — she has just gone into the church. Yes, she 
is a real daughter of the Mission. 

"Father Ambris loved the Mission and he loved flowers 

267 



^^t CaCifovnia ^abxts 



and trees and liked to work among them. Those olives there " 
— pointing to two thrifty trees which stood one on each side 
of the church entrance — "were put there by him, trans- 
planted from the old orchard over yonder. He died about 
1880, and is buried in the church. He had been here thirty 
years, and came of his own free will, for the Mission had been 
secularized before that. Everything was going to wrack, and 
he believed it a good work to come and be curate. He made 
it very nice here, but it is all desolate again these many years, 
and so neglected. Of all the Mission lands which extended 
once for miles all around, only thirty-three acres are owned 
now by the Church. They are rented, all but a couple of acres 
or so right at the Mission, to the Milpitas people, who have 
them planted to crops for feed for their stock. And the In- 
dians, of course, are gone long, long ago; all except three or 
four families Living in the hills on Mission Creek and on the 
San Antone. Of course, they own no land, but the Milpitas 
people don't disturb them. They are good workers and hire 
out on the ranch; though the foreman tells me the old folks 
are better than the young people. Once in a while one dies, 
and is buried in the old Mission cemetery here." 

The extinction of the Indian Hfe around the California 
Missions is no small part of the pathos of them. It was quick 
business. Here at San Antonio, for instance, the register of 
1805 showed thirteen hundred neophytes. In 1832, on the 
eve of secularization, the number was down to six hundred 
and sixty, and every Indian within reach appeared to have 
been converted. Then came secularization, after ten years 
of which the census-takers could find only a beggarly fifteen, 
ten of them men, five women. "Drink and the devil had done 
for the rest." The Fathers killed by kindness; Mexican lib- 
erty by starvation, mistreatment, and aguardiente in pay- 
ment of labor. It was a few years after that census of fifteen 

268 



that Father Doroteo Ambris took charge. His business was 
simply that of a secular curate; but his administration, under- 
taken as a labor of love, was worthy of the fine old Franciscans 
who had preceded him at San Antonio — of Padre Buenaven- 
tura Sit jar, who came with Serra to the founding in 177 1 and 
was still there thirty-seven years later when Brother Death 
called to relieve him; of Padre Pedro Cabot, "El Caballero," 
so called because of his polished manners, which Robinson 
thought worthy a bringing-up at some European Court rather 
than in a cloister; and of good old Padre Juan Bautista 
Sancho. It was Cabot and Sancho, companeros for a quarter 
of a century at San Antonio, who guided its course in the 
golden noon of its prosperity and stayed with it till the eve- 
ning of its decline — Sancho till his death in 1830, Cabot till 
secularization in 1834, when he left to lay down his weary 
body at San Fernando, as we have seen. 

Padre Sancho brought the temporalities of the Mission to a 
pitch of excellence that made its name recognized throughout 
California for certain good things — as capital flour, and 
horses renowned for speed and hardness of hoof. Sorrowing 
Padre Pedro, who buried him, has left a tribute to his good 
qualities, from which we learn somewhat of his mettle. A 
foe to idleness in himself, he would have none of it in his 
neofitos. "Who would eat, must work," was his motto. He 
had an iron constitution and every moment of the day found 
him busy — working in the field, visiting the sick, or min- 
istering to the spiritual needs of his flock. On rainy days he 
turned scholar and scribe, composing catechisms for the 
Indians, whose language ^ he had learned, and writing music- 

^ This at most Missions meant not simply learning one language, but a num- 
ber. Padre Arroyo, for instance, preached in thirteen at San Juan Bautista. 
It was characteristic of the California Indians that they were split up into a 
great number of small linguistic groups; and naturally any given Mission, 

269 



t^t CaCifotnia ^(xbxt^ 



books for them. Whatever was to be done, he did with his 
might, and again and again he became so absorbed in the 
task of the moment that he forgot to eat. In what remains of 
Mission San Antonio to-day, we see more of his sturdy strokes, 
I fancy, than another's; and if ever the old church is restored, 
as it deserves to be, it will be because of Padre Sancho's 
foundation of honest workmanship. Tireless old toiler in the 
vineyard of God! The buildings at which he wrought are 
now a sorry wreck; the fields of his sowing, waste; the people 
of his spiritual care, obliterated from the land. Was it all 
worth while — those twenty-six years of unceasing labor in 
the wilderness? I believe it was. It was more than a pair of 
hands that worked: it was an eager, loving spirit, sowing to 
the Spirit; and the harvest of such sowing is life everlasting 
— and not, I think, for the sower alone. 

reaching out for converts over a radius of ten or fifteen miles, got into its fold 
speakers of very diverse idioms. 



n 

A Christmas Pastoral 

H HAD camped, the day before, on the Nacimiento, I wonder 
^ who named that stream, the "Rio del Nacimiento," River 
of the Nativity? Whoever it was — some friar of the early 
days, no doubt — "I thank thee. Fray, for teaching me that 
word." (And, indeed, California owes no small thanks to 
those priests, Serra and his companions and followers, who 
fixed the names upon so many of our geographical features. 
Contrast "Bloody Gulch" with "Arroyo de las Llagas" and 
"Horse-thief Bluff" with "Lomas de la Purificacion.") So 
probably it was the fact that my mind had been dwelling upon 
the attractive name of the attractive little stream, together 
with my having lately been reading something about Christ- 
mas celebrations in old times at the Missions, that brought be- 
fore my mind's eye a picture of one of those simple Morality 
plays (or Pastorelas, as they were called) when I sat by my 
camp-fire the next night, beside the San Antonio River and 
within stone's throw of the ruined Mission. 

The Valley of the Oaks, as regards that part of it that is 
contiguous to the Mission, seems to be in unaccountable dis- 
turbance. Usually, for all that can be seen or heard, soon 
after nightfall the owls and coyotes hold undisturbed pos- 
session, unless, perhaps, for a bar of light that shines from 
the room where the Padre's candle burns. But to-night (if I 
may borrow from the great Milton) 

" The stars, with deep amaze, 
Stand fixed in steadfast gaze," 

as on that first Nativity: for it is again Christmas Eve, La 

271 



€^t CaCifotrnia ^a>>te0 

Noche Buena, the Good Night, as the Spaniards name it; and 
twinkling lights move here and there all about the Mission, 
which itself sends out a steady beam from open door and high- 
placed window. 

A deep bell tone sounds, once; then trembles out, solemn 
but sweet, upon the cold, still air. Another — and another 
— and at each, the Indians, wending toward the church, 
torch in hand, stop and reverently bend the knee; for it is the 
token of the Most Holy Trinity. Then, merry as you like, 
Pio, Camilo, Florencio, whoever you are, merry and fast, for 
an example — though there is no need — to the people, who 
now come hurrying, running, old and young, men and women, 
boys, girls, and babies, and press through the open doorway. 
But they check as they enter, again bending the knee and 
crossing themselves before the Mystery typified to their un- 
questioning, humble minds by blazing altar, star-crowned 
Madonna, awful crucifix. 

Within the crowded church all is silence but for the bells 
that continue their clamor above. Suddenly they cease, and 
again three slow and solemn notes are sounded. The priests 
enter. The people drop to their knees, and every head is 
humbly bowed. (Good reader, Protestant like myself, let us, 
too, kneel and bow the head, in company with ignorant, 
superstitious Indian, and — if it be so, I do not know — 
haughty, bigoted Spanish priest. It may well be, indeed, it 
surely is, that in His eyes to whom they kneel we are as 
ignorant, superstitious, haughty, and bigoted as they. Let 
us thankfully share our brothers' humility, as well.) 

A deep, strong voice from the gallery at the rear breaks the 
hush. It is the Kyrie Eleison. Domingo, the old cantor, is 
singing the first line. Then instruments join in, violins, flutes, 
bass-viols, and many voices, all of men: a strange, resonant 
singing, that somehow is like the Indian himself, somber, 

272 



dark, joyless. Now the priest's voice rises in the Gloria in 
Excelsis; and so the solemn service of the midnight mass pro- 
ceeds, and with Ite, missa est, closes. 

Again the bells ring, merry and fast; but the people, in- 
stead of leaving the building, stand looking toward the door. 
The priest, who had gone to the sacristy, now returns, carry- 
ing in his arms a small figure of the infant Saviour. He stands 
before the altar rail, and invites all who will to approach and 
kiss the Holy Child. Immediately the women press forward 
and, one by one, awkwardly, reverently, touch their lips to 
the wondrous Babe, their dull eyes and stolid features light- 
ened to a strange thrill in the caress of the beautiful NinOj 
dimpled, smiling, fair of skin and hair, — all that is ideal, 
adorable, to the dusky, heavy-witted Indian. To sympathize, 
we need not call it religion: we can reverence at least the 
Eternal Womanly. 

But now the bell ceases, and then comes on the great, the 
long-looked-for, long-prepared-for event of the night, the 
wonderful Pastorela, arranged by the Padre, and rehearsed 
at frequent intervals for two months past by the Indians who 
are to participate, at huge expenditure of the Padre's pa- 
tience. The moment has arrived, and a flourish of music from 
the gallery, a lively, rattling tune, announces the opening of 
the sacred drama. Then through the door come the actors, 
to the long-drawn breaths of admiration of the adults and the 
shrill exclamations of round-eyed children. First enters a 
handsome, smooth-faced young Indian in a tunic of blue, 
bespangled with gilt stars, and with a similar larger star fas- 
tened with wire above his forehead. It is Gabriel, the Arch- 
angel of the Nativity. Excitement is unbounded, and must 
be expressed in clasped hands and murmurs of "Ah! the 
blessed angel! how beautiful!" Next comes an older Indian 
dressed in sheepskins with the wool turned outward, and 

273 



Zift CaCifotnta ^abx^^ 



carrying a crook-headed staff. The word goes round, "It is 
the shepherd of Belen, the one who talks to the blessed angel." 

Then appears a figure at sight of which the women press 
back and hold the children against their knees: a tall, cadav- 
erous personage, face grotesquely painted in blue, white, and 
yellow, with two small goat's horns projecting from his fore- 
head, and wearing a sleeveless coat which, like his bare arms 
and legs, is emblazoned with red flames. He rolls his eyes as 
he walks, and terrifies the children by poking at them with 
a rod painted red to imitate heated iron. No need for mutual 
explanations at this. "El Diablo! Satands!" is whispered 
shudderingly. Following him comes a clown-like fellow in 
fantastic garb, mopping and mowing and pointing as if crazy. 
He is known as Bartolo, and his function seems to be that of 
fun-maker, with no bearing upon the serious action of the 
play. Last enter six young girls in white robes reaching to the 
knee, carrying lighted candles and wearing white, veil-like 
head-coverings, each with a small gilt star. They are plainly 
angels, and excite great admiration as they walk to their 
places; but instead of remaining with the other characters 
in the midst of the church, these go on to where a low plat- 
form has been built, just outside the altar rail, on which is an 
object that is covered with a large white cloth. The angels 
take their stand, three and three, on each side of the platform. 

After a moment's pause, Domingo's voice is heard from 
the gallery. It is the cue, and at once the girls take up the 
hymn, Adeste Fideles, the actors, even including El Diablo 
and the dubious Bartolo, joining in it. When it is ended, 
Gabriel advances and announces the birth of the Saviour. 
His words are largely taken from the Biblical account, anc^ 
he ends by declaring that God (El Padre Celestial) ha^ 
sent a marvelous star to lead all men to the holy Birthplace, 
there to adore the Divine Infant and to venerate his Virgin 

274 



mother. As he finishes his speech he points upward. All eyes 
turn thither, and — a miracle! — a large star appears above 
the altar, and is seen slowly to descend. Hands are clasped, 
and a sigh of wonder and awe goes through the church. Many 
cross themselves and bend the knee. The star draws nearer, 
nearer, and at last comes to rest above the veiled object. 

There is a revulsion as Satan now steps forward and, ad- 
dressing the shepherd, combats the Archangel's words. He 
declares that by Adam's fall mankind- has passed forever un- 
der his dominion, and that hope of redemption is vain. His 
speech is a long one, but is listened to with deep attention by 
the people, in spite of the comicaUties of Bartolo, who, all the 
time it is in progress, is employed in gestures and antics which 
appear to have Satan himself as their principal object. All 
seem to feel that solertm events hang upon the argument, and 
there is a hush of anxiety when he ceases. Gabriel again takes 
the word, and relates how the Father has mercifully ordained 
that for all who humbly repent of their evil lives and diligently 
pray to Him there is a way of escape from the destruction due 
to Adam's transgression. He directs the shepherd's attention 
to a cross, which he holds before him, and the shepherd, sink- 
ing upon his knees, adores the symbol of Redemption. But 
the Devil, at his other side, attempts to distract him from 
his devotion with whispers and demonstrations with his red- 
hot weapon, mimicked in every action by the irrepressible 
Bartolo, whose intention is to throw ridicule upon the Evil 
One. Gabriel intervenes by advancing between Satan and 
the shepherd, and, presenting the cross toward the former, 
calls upon him to forbear his temptations and threats directed 
to the shepherd, and to acknowledge himself vanquished and 
adore the Eternal Majesty. The Devil, cowed by the virtue 
of the cross, unwillingly kneels, while the angels, at a signal 
from Domingo, break into a song of victory. 

275 



't^^ CaCifovnia (pabve^ 

Gabriel, cross in hand, now leads the shepherd toward the 
star, Bartolo and the Devil following, and as they reach the 
platform, the Archangel draws the veil aside and reveals a 
rude, straw-filled manger, in which is seen the image of the 
Holy Child, while at the head is a small statue of the Virgin. 
Then comes a closing tableau, the Archangel, the angels with 
lighted candles, the shepherd, and Bartolo grouped about 
the manger, El Diablo in the background, and the star shin- 
ing over all. 

The Padre comes forward and invites all to approach in 
order, and view the manger and El Nino Salvador. There is 
a long sigh from the watchers, who seem loath to break the 
spell that has held them absorbed, hardly breathing. It is 
broken for them by the bells, which again ring out in lively 
din. Men, women, and children press forward, bowing and 
crossing themselves as in turn they pass the central figures; 
and then cluster about the platform, chattering gayly — a 
rare outbreaking for the grave, silent Indians, almost as if 
they felt that, with the happy denouement, their own dark 
shadow had truly been lifted. (Perhaps they did feel so : for 
they were simple as children, and it is, after all, as by Httle 
children that the Kingdom of Heaven must be received.) 
Bartolo and El Diablo, the play being done, hovered on the 
outskirts of the crowd, indulging in all manner of uncouth 
antics, to the delight of the men and boys and the hopeless 
bewilderment of many very sleepy babies. 

While still the bells ring lustily, the concourse gradually 
disperses, and the Pastorela, crude, indeed, but sincere, and 
therefore, no doubt, effective for its purpose, is over: — 
barely in time for Padre and people to snatch a little sleep 
before the bells will ring once more, to summon them to the 
solemn early service (the Misa del Gallo, or cock-crow mass), 
of Christmas Day. 



SOLEDAD 












'■'M'*^.¥K^-t- 




'1^^ 









Mission Soledad, and how Papa Arrillaga's Soul 
LACKS A Mass 

A^NE Saturday night the train dropped me at the station 
^^ of Soledad, a dreary little town in the midst of the flat, 
wide valley of the SaHnas River, twenty miles north of King 
City. The region roundabout is a sort of little Switzerland, 
not because of any snowy peaks there or chalets with rocks 
to hold the roofs down, but because it is largely settled with 
ItaHan Swiss, whose ranch-lands, planted to alfalfa and beets 
and stocked with dairy cattle, are flowing with cream, cheese, 
and butter. Somewhere near here the expedition of Portola, 
one September day of 1769, emerged exhausted from their 
cruel passage of the Santa Lucia Sierra, and rested their tired 
eyes on a leafy fertile vega, fragant with rosemary, salvia, and 
"roses of Castile." To those haggard, footsore explorers it 
was a heavenly place, and I think there must have been a 
temperate celebration that night around their camp-fires; 
for though Padre Crespi, in his priestly way, was for dedi- 
cating to St. Eleazer this first camp by the river we now 
call Salinas, the soldiers named it "El Real del Chocolate" 
(the Camp of the Chocolate), that delectable confection 
being the especial luxury of the pioneers. 

The ruins of the old Mission of Nuestra Senora Dolorosi- 
sima de la Soledad, to which Soledad owes its abbreviated 
name, are across the Sahnas River, and I set out for them 
afoot early the next morning. The distance is four miles by 
road; but an obliging Soledadan of whom I asked directions 

279 



^^^ Cafifoma ^cibU0 



put me on a short cut through the fields that would halve 
the distance. I knew the proverbial uncertainties of any short 
cut and was soon astray on this one, but fortunately among 
the willows at the river bank I came upon the camp of a cheer- 
ful hobo. He was devoting his Sabbath morning to the exer- 
cise of that virtue which, being next to godliness, may, at a 
pinch, be allowed to Sunday, and was washing his scraps of 
linen. He let me into a trail that led eventually to the flimsy 
little foot-bridge by which the river — at that dry season 
reduced to a mere ribbon — is here crossed. Once over, I 
entered a zone of Swiss farms, and, traversing this, I came to 
the highroad after its roundabout trip from Soledad town. 
A dusty half mile of road and I passed into a field in whose 
midst was a pitiful barbed wire fence inclosing an acre or 
two of weedy ground and the wreck of the Mission of Our 
Most Sorrowful Lady of Solitude — a century and a quarter 
ago hopefully dedicated to the conquest of Satan in those 
parts; now all desolate and Satan still unconquered. 

As none of the buildings of this Mission ever got beyond 
the adobe stage, what remains is a rambling ruin of roofless, 
mudbrick walls, broken and breached by the elements, strol- 
ling cattle, and graceless humanity; and every year puts 
them but the farther on their Avernian road. No vestige of 
the former occupation is evident, not a fruit tree, not a rose- 
bush, or a burial cross. The only break in a brown monotone 
of adobe when I was there was an aforetime squatter's frame 
shack under the shade of a wild walnut tree that lent a little 
touch of homelikeness to the habitation. I hope the vagrant 
occupant acquired grace in his ecclesiastic surroundings. It 
would be interesting to know whether he left because an 
awakened conscience made the solitude unbearable, or 
whether he was evicted with the trespassing cattle when the 
fencing was done. At any rate, he is gone now, and even the 

280 



bats and the monkey-faced owls, a dependable population at 
other ruined Missions, have deserted Soledad. 

The Mexican Governor, Alvarado, I read, had the distinc- 
tion in 1 84 1 of putting the final touch to Soledad's confisca- 
tion, taking the last of its cattle, iron-work, and tiles for one 
of his own misgotten ranches, and conveying its lands to his 
crony Soberanes for a Httle property nearer the gayeties of 
Monterey. Of the chiurch part only a single right angle now 
stands, formed by the toppling fagade and some twenty feet 
of one side wall that joins the front, and so, perhaps, keeps 
it from falling. I passed within and, picking my way over 
rubbish heaps of broken tiles and collapsed walls, sat down on 
a mound of melted mudbricks to think it over. A rabbit, 
startled at the unwonted noise of footsteps, leaped from its 
home amid the dusty debris where I fancied the ancient altar 
had been, and scuttled away. A ground owl chittered in the 
neighboring fields, and I could see him atop of his sticks of 
legs, ridiculously bowing at nothing. By and by a quail out 
there called. Then, unbroken stillness. The church stands 
with its back to the river, or rather did when it had a back; 
its face, like the Psalmist's who looked to the hills for his 
strength, is toward the rugged mountains to the westward — 
that Sierra de Santa Lucia whose northern spurs drop to the 
sea at San Carlos. The range may be five miles from Soledad, 
and from my dust-heap I saw a misty blue section of it, like 
a picture framed in the square of the old doorway, the foot- 
hills in the foreground dotted with an occasional ranch-house 
and bunch of grazing cattle, and its crest veiled with clinging 
remnants of the fog of the night before. It was a peaceful 
scene, and all around was a sense of peace after struggle; and 
there was the blessed sunshine still, and suddenly the song of 
a lark; so somehow I was not so sorry as I expected to be for 
the old Spanish gobernador, Don Jose Joaquin de Arrillaga, 

281 



't^t California ^a^xt& 



who just a century ago was buried in the church, and I sup- 
pose lies there yet. While the sun shines, and the birds come 
and go and the stars look nightly down, that unmarked grave 
under the sky cannot be all cheerless, I think. 

Arrillaga was a kindly governor, with a passion for silk 
handkerchiefs and silk stockings. He was Papa Arrillaga to 
his soldiers to whose babies he liked to stand godfather, and a 
fast friend of Padre Florencio Ybanez of Soledad. So, when 
he found himself sickening, he posted to the Mission to be 
near his familiar comrade and spiritual counselor; and there 
he died. At his own request he was, after death, "clothed in 
a habit which the religious of our Father St. Francis wear," 
and interred in the church where the friend of his heart min- 
istered. Like a provident good Catholic, Arrillaga ordered 
in his will one hundred masses to be said for the repose of his 
soul. The commission was executed partly at San Antonio 
and partly at San Miguel, I read, and in due time an account 
was rendered to the Governor's executor, one Alferez Estrada, 
at a peso per mass. This Estrada seems to have been a very 
businesslike person and felt the responsibility of his trust; 
for, according to Bancroft, who never misses an opportunity 
for a sly dig at the ways of thefrailes, the said executor could 
figure out only ninety-nine masses said, and very thriftily 
discounted the Church's bill one peso, before paying! 

Padre Ybanez was a man of strong personality. With his 
confrere, Fray Antonio Jaime, a snuff-taking, easy-going 
Padre with the kindest of hearts, to whom his neofitos were 
willing slaves, he conducted the affairs of Mission Soledad 
during its best days, from 1803 to 1818. He was a strapping, 
broad-shouldered, jovial Catalan, famous for a way he had 
of being markedly kind to all common folk and rubbing up 
the fur of his visitor dons and bigwigs by treating them as if 
they were just vin ordinaire. To the soldiers of the guard he 

282 



was always considerate, and would teach them to read and 
write, to improve their condition. As for his neophytes, he 
took especial pleasure in showing them the best ways to 
handle their work, and went to great pains with their musi- 
cal training; for he was himself more than ordinarily proficient 
in music, and was a bit of a rhymester, too. He ended his days 
at his well-beloved Mission, and his remains doubtless mingle 
with its dust. 

Soledad seems always to have been noted among the Cali- 
fornia Missions for its absence of outward charm, though its 
hospitality was on a par with the best. The name of the Mis- 
sion is, indeed, all in favor of cheerlessness and predisposes the 
visitor to find only that about the place; yet, as a matter of 
fact, the Solitude of the dolorous title has reference not to 
any outward condition, but to a spiritual. In honor of Our 
Lady of Solitude — Nuestra Senora de la Soledad — there is a 
special form of devotion practiced in Spanish-speaking coun- 
tries on Holy Saturday of Passion Week, to commemorate 
the imspeakable solitude of Mary in the time between the 
crucifixion and the resurrection of her Son. A Mission dedi- 
cated to this experience of the Sorrowing Mother was de- 
cided upon some years before the actual founding, it being 
the custom in the case of all the California Missions to settle 
in Mexico upon their heavenly patrons and their titles. It 
so happens, in the case of this establishment, that the region 
had been known as the Valley of Soledad long before it had 
been pitched upon for a Mission. Probably in some expedi- 
tion of the early explorers, camp had been made here, and the 
priests, as was their custom, had given it a religious name 
which persisted. 



€^t Caftfotnia (pabte^ 
II 

Faithful unto Death 

TJ^he sites of all the Missions were chosen, naturally, with 
^^ great care, and even at this distance of time the visitor 
to them to-day can usually discern the reason for their loca- 
tion, and admire the good judgment displayed by the foun- 
ders. But in the case of the Mission of Nuestra Senora Dolor- 
osisima de la Soledad it is hard to see any reason of beauty, 
fertility, strategic importance, or anything else, for the selec- 
tion of this cheerless site : though, when it was definitely wished 
to dedicate a Mission to Our Lady of SoHtude, no better choice 
could have been made throughout the whole long coast of 
California than this wide, sun-bleached valley of the Salinas. 
It is, even now, a sparsely settled region: a land of sun and 
dust, of scanty, ill-clad trees, of vast roaming winds; where 
month on month one sees only an eternal color monotony of 
drab of barren earth, pale gold of parching grass, and hard 
cobalt of sky; and for sound accompaniments hears only day- 
long chipping of ground squirrels and nightly clamor of 
coyotes. 

But absolutely without attractiveness as the region is, and 
complete as is the destruction of the old church, now an in- 
coherent and unsightly ruin of adobe fragments, I have always 
felt a beauty in the perfect sympathy that exists between the 
place and the name. Our Lady of Solitude — how deeply 
suited to this scene of lonely desolation! To De Quincey's 
great trilogy of "Our Ladies of Sorrow," I think the name of 
this forsaken spot might well be added, Mater Solitudinum. 
Like those other dark-robed three. Mater Tenebrarum, Mater 
Lachrymarum, and Mater Suspiriorum, she, too, ministers at 

284 



the birth of many of the sons of men, and, however unwel- 
come, guides their fated way through life. 

It seems appropriate that Nuestra Sefiora Dolorosisima de 
la Soledad should have been the scene of one of the saddest 
incidents in the history of the California Missions. Their 
decline from prosperity was as rapid as the rise had been, and 
began even before the ill-omened policy of secularization, 
which had long been threatened by the Government of Mex- 
ico, went into effect. The edict, which formally went into 
force in 1834, inaugurated an era of open spoliation. Father 
Sarria was the priest in charge at the Mission of Soledad at 
the time, and, with a devotion which, judged by either Pro- 
testant or Catholic standards, can only be called heroic, he 
remained at his post while even the means of barest living 
dwindled away to the point of absolute hunger. On a Sunday 
of 1838, while saying mass in the church in presence of the 
remnant of his Indians, he fell at the altar, fainting from 
weakness, and died the same afternoon apparently of literal 
starvation. 

The figure of Father Sarria is one of the most attractive in 
the whole number of California's early missionaries. In a 
special degree his works exemplified and his words enforced 
the beautiful Franciscan rules of simplicity and poverty. Yet, 
like the founder of his order, he was a man of fine taste and 
high acquirements. Even in translation, one cannot but 
admire the elegance both of thought and language of his 
letters, the letters of a sweet spirit and a polished gentleman. 
On the subject of church architecture and decoration he 
writes, in a pastoral following upon a visitation which, as 
Comisario Prefecto, he had made to all the Missions: "It is 
right for each Father to give full rein to his ideas of beauty in 
architecture, art, etc., but always within the bounds of lovely, 
evangeHcal simplicity which our worthy predecessors have 

285 



€i}t CaCifomia ^abve^ 



taught us." "Lovely, evangelical simplicity" — that is a 
charming phrase for the best of virtues; and it is to such a 
spirit in the leaders among the early Padres, indeed, that is 
due the dignity and perfect taste which make the Mission 
buildings, even in ruin, so pleasing. Would that it were more 
in favor in many phases of our modern life ! 

Constantly in Father Sarria's letters we find the same 
thought uppermost. Continually he exhorts to the fulfillment 
of the Franciscan Rule, and that, one may be sure, not from 
bigotry or a wooden asceticism, but from a sincere under- 
standing of its value. Hearing that certain carriages had 
arrived by one of the supply ships, he would forestall their 
possible harm by a few quiet words to the effect that a mis- 
sionary should exhibit the purest simpHcity, so that the carp- 
ing world might see the disinterestedness of his service of the 
poor Indian, " even like that of Our Saviour Jesus Christ." 
He prefers that the Fathers go afoot, or use, when needful, 
the primitive ox-cart of the country (a mode of travel, it may 
be said in passing, to which walking would seem to be on all 
points preferable) . He would even have the priests wear the 
time-honored sandal, rather than the more modern shoe, 
which would seem luxurious to the bare-footed neophyte; 
and similarly he discountenances other non-necessities. He is 
always keenly solicitous for the welfare of the natives, in 
temporal as well as spiritual matters; yet, whUe criticizing 
this or that item of Mission management, he is ever ready 
with cheerful praise in general of the work of the missionaries. 
One notes, often, an almost PauHne delicacy of thought and 
phrase. " Though I cannot say," he writes, " that everything 
has been remedied according to my wishes, through the 
mercy of God there is nothing of moment to prosecute, nor 
anything that might seem unedifying, considering the circum- 
stances under which we labor. Indeed, there are those, and 

286 



not a few, who observe the Rule most strictly, so that they 
can be the consolation of a Superior, his luster, his crown, his 
true and desired joy." 

Gentle as was his nature, however. Father Sarria could 
show a front of iron when occasion of principle arose. At the 
time of the change in Mexico from Spanish rule to inde- 
pendence, he held the responsible post of Comisario Prefecto 
of the Missions of CaHfornia. He was thus the head of the 
Fathers in all affairs of business and politics, and it was a 
matter of importance what position he would take toward 
the new Government. He made no difficulty of recognizing 
the Government first estabHshed, which was intended to be 
an empire, with the Spanish king or one of his brothers at its 
head. But when, after a year or two of chaos, the Mexican 
Republic emerged (in 1824) Father Sarria, with a few others 
of the priests, refused to take oath of allegiance. Whatever 
view one may take of his course on the broad question of 
monarchy versus republic, one must honor the spirit which 
shines out in the words of his letter of refusal to Governor 
Argiiello. " Having reflected," he says, on the " oath which 
is demanded of us, I have concluded that I cannot take it 
without violating prior obligations of justice and fideHty. I 
therefore inform you accordingly, albeit with much and ear- 
nest regret, inasmuch as in all things possible I should wish 
to give an example of submission, as I have done heretofore; 
yet I am now unable, because my conscience forbids me. For 
the same reason, I will not influence the other Fathers to take 
said oath, or to sanction it by celebrating holy mass and 
singing the Te Deum, as is ordered in your communication of 
the third instant. I am well aware that we are threatened 
with exile, but I will undergo all, along with the crushing 
sorrow and many tears which the abandonment of the much- 
beloved flock entrusted to my care will cause me, and will 

287 
% 



^§e Cafifoma ^CibxtB 



bear it for God's sake. I will leave whenever it must be for 
the sake of the same God, whom I have more than once 
implored to make me suffer whatever is useful for His Holy 
and Adorable Name." 

In another letter, explaining in detail his motives, he offers 
to take oath not to do anything against the new Government, 
and says that he is leaving the Fathers who are under his 
direction entirely free to do as they think proper in the 
matter; ending with the words, "I bewail all this at the Mis- 
sion of my heart, and commend it to God." 

Such was the man who, at the age of sixty-eight, feU a vic- 
tim — if one cares to use that word in a case, like that of the 
Happy Warrior, almost enviable — to his high ideal of duty. 
In the roll of the Padres of California the name of Vicente 
Francisco de Sarria is worthy to stand linked in equal honor 
with that of Junipero Serra himself. One would think that 
the great and wealthy Church to which he belonged could 
afford to place, even at this lonely ruin, some monument to 
the memory of the martyr of Our Most Sorrowful Lady of 
Solitude. On such a memorial might well be inscribed for 
epitaph — Fidelis usque ad Mortem. 



C^cipttx 5if^em 



SAN CARLOS DE MONTEREY ON THE 
CARMEL 




San Carlos de Monterey on the Carmel, and how 
Padre Junipero entered into Rest 

/^T Monterey there is somewhat of an embarrassment of 
>w Missions. In the town itself is the church of San Carlos 
Borromeo, which the misguided will tell you is the original 
Mission church; and when you see its Old Worldly stone 
fagade with elaborate carvings and flutings, the yellowish 
color beautifully mellowed with years, and a quaint pathway 
of whale's round vertebrae leading to the door, you are prob- 
ably not disposed to question the statement. Moreover, in 
the church are many relics of Mission days — old candle- 
sticks of silver and brass, priestly vestments, chalices, and 
what-not, used in bygone times. Vellum-bound books of 
baptisms, marriages and deaths, with page after page in 
Junipero Serra's autograph and signed by him, used to be 
shown to visitors; but since one evil day when an unscrupu- 
lous souvenir collector slyly cut out a leaf with his penknife 
while the guide's back was turned, such matters are kept from 
the public eye and hand, and the innocent now have to do 
penance for that sin of another. 

Nevertheless, this church, with all its antique look and at- 
mosphere, is not a Mission nor ever was. It is merely the 
successor of the little chapel early built to serve the spiritual 
needs of the garrison of the old Spanish presidio. Nowadays 
it is Monterey's parish church, to which have been entrusted 
for safe-keeping and for display to the curious many of the 
relics of the real Mission, which stands five miles away in the 
lovely valley of the Carmel. 

291 
% 



^§e CaCifotnia ^(Xbtt& 



Of course, you can be whisked from Monterey in an auto- 
mobile to San Carlos on the Carmel, or you can have for " two 
bits" a seat in the Carmel stage which will deliver you within 
half a mile of the old church; but why not go afoot and enjoy 
one of the most romantic walks in all California? 

That was Serra's own particular Mission until the time of 
his death in 1784. Though the second to be founded — San 
Diego preceded it by a year — it was long the first in import- 
ance of all the chain, both by reason of being the residence of 
the first Fathers President and because of its proximity to 
Monterey, the capital of Alta California. The five miles of 
road between Monterey and Carmel were, for a generation or 
more, perhaps the best traveled in the province. Back and 
forth upon it went an intermittent procession of Spanish 
governors and comandantes in slashes and furbelows and jin- 
gling armor; gray-gowned, sandaled friars with beads and cru- 
cifix ; and leather- jacketed soldiers of the King with lance and 
bull-hide shield; hard-riding vaqueros in gaudy sashes and 
high-peaked sombreros; arrieros with their trains of pack- 
mules; and dumpy Indian neophytes cracking their snaky 
whips around the ears of oxen that pulled cumbersome car- 
retas whose ungreased axles shrieked to heaven. Many a 
book-writing traveler, too, passed the same way — that 
French Comte de la Perouse, for instance, with his philosophe 
ideas about the rights of man, even Indians, but practical 
enough withal to introduce Chilean potatoes into California; 
and Captain George Vancouver, to whom we owe a sketch of 
Carmel Mission as it looked in 1792; and young Mr. Richard 
Henry Dana, Jr., " before- the-mast " man from Boston, who 
arrived a year or two after secularization, and had some pert 
remarks to make about " something in the way of a dinner 
— beef, eggs, frijoles, tortillas, and some middling wine" — 
which the mayordomo's hospitality provided. 

292 



With such memories possessing my romantic head, I 
quitted Monterey hotel one foggy morning, and, after a 
swashbuckler sort of breakfast of ham and eggs, hot cakes, 
and coffee at an "owl" restaurant, with a couple of hairy- 
chested working-men for messmates, I struck out on the Car- 
mel road. I found it a broad highway of the old-fashioned 
country sort and pleasantly flowery with Indian paintbrush, 
asters, and monkey flowers. A grass-embroidered footpath 
edged the road, winding in and out under pines and gnarled 
old live-oaks hung with stringy lichens, or Spaniard's-beard, 
as Stevenson calls it. So early was I astir that I was granted 
the selfish luxury of the road to myself, save for the passing 
of Wing, the Chinese huckster "boy," inward-bound to Mon- 
terey from his Carmel ranch with a load of cabbages and 
squashes. 

For a mile or more the road was uphill business. At the top 
of the grade, I stopped for breath, and, turning about, looked 
down on Del Monte in its sylvan seclusion; on Monterey 
town and its fishhook bay, white-rimmed with surf and 
dotted with fishing craft. The fog now was broken by the 
rising sun and retreating gloomily — like a sulky loser — out 
to sea. Here at the hilltop, there branches dimly from the 
highroad a footpath which you may follow the rest of the 
distance to Carmel, through idyllic ways, now beneath the 
pines and now across grassy glades where wild flowers twinkle. 
Through a rift in the woods you see now and again the blue of 
the sea, and the breeze brings to you the complaint of the 
distant surf. I should have liked mightily to think that this 
trail I trod was the very path of the Padres, worn by their 
faithful feet as they traveled to and from Monterey — of 
Junipero and Lasuen and Crespi the Blessed, and the rest 
who made Carmel for a brief while as a good deed in a naughty 
world. It is questionable, however, if the most expert anti- 

293 



€^t Cafifoma ^abte^ 



quary can pick out for us to-day the exact line of their ancient 
camino. Doubtless, though, the present highroad follows it in 
a general way; and certainly this charming woodland trail 
through scenes largely unspoiled as yet, holds the very spirit 
of the old time. 

The vale of Carmel, with its little river emptying into a 
quiet bay of its own, owes its name to Viscaino, who, while 
the seventeenth century was still in long clothes, — in 1602, 
to be exact, — discovered it. Having as his ecclesiastical con- 
tingent three barefoot Carmelite friars, he bestowed upon 
the region the name which should commemorate their order 
of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Like so many of the names 
given in California by Spanish explorers, this has persisted, 
helping to preserve in the land that flavor of romance which 
goes with the things of Spain. As I emerged from the woods, 
the valley opened out before me with much the same cheer- 
ful aspect that it presented to the early Spaniards who found 
it "an extensive plain very apropos [a proposito] for corn- 
fields . . . brushy with willows and other trees, with brambles 
and infinitude of roses of Castile." It was a fertile vega swept 
pure and clean by the besom of the ocean wind, the little 
river of Carmel winding through its midst. On the farther 
side rose the wild Sierra de Santa Lucia, and at its foot to the 
westward Point Lobos thrust a long, wolfish nose into the 
spouting surf, whose long-drawn thunder came faintly to 
my ears. On a slight knoll at the hither edge of the valley 
stood the old Mission, with its quaintly starred front and 
egg-shaped dome, made familiar in many a picture. Captain 
Beechey, of His Britannic Majesty's sloop Blossom, who 
visited San Carlos in 1826, mentions as standing on the road 
from Monterey, just before the Carmel Valley appears, " three 
large crosses erected upon Mount Calvary," and farther on 
a number of smaller ones at the roadside, apprising the trav- 

294 



eler of his approach to the Mission. No traveler sees them 
to-day — they were swept long ago into the general limbo 
of lost things. 

I suppose the first impulse with every visitor at Carmel, 
who believes himself possessed of some artistic taste, is very 
heartily to damn the architect responsible for the distressingly 
incongruous, high-pitched shingle roof that humiliates this 
Mission of San Carlos — one of the most interesting survi- 
vals in the United States of an idealistic past. Yet, but for 
that shingle covering, little of San Carlos would remain to us 
to-day, and its builder put it there merely as a stop-gap until 
funds should be available to lay a tile roof of ancient pat- 
tern harmonious with the rest of the structure; for tiles cost 
money. ^ It is to one Father Angelo Casanova, parish priest at 
Monterey from 1868 to 1893, who found the Mission a wreck 
dishonorable alike to Church and Commonwealth, that we 
owe the maligned roof, the eviction of the squatter owls and 
bats, and such restoration and protection from the maraud- 
ing human public as make the place now visitable. At a little 
ranch-house under the hill where the Mission gardens used 
to be, and where still one may gather pears from the relics 
of the original orchard, I found a bright little girl with the 
church key, and by her, for a trifling fee, was ushered into 
this "Santa Croce of the West," as a modern historian has 
dubbed it. 

The furnished sanctuary and a number of benches placed 
well forward toward the altar showed the place to be used 
for present-day religious services, which are, indeed, held 
here one Sunday of every month. The building is a very sub- 
stantial one with walls four feet through at the base, of a soft, 

^ A fund has been started for this work, and any traveler, sufficiently im- 
pressed with the need of a tile roof to put his hand in his pocket, may have his 
contribution gratefully cared for by the present parish priest, Father R. M. 
Mestres, at Monterey. 



bluish stone quarried in the vicinity. Owing to the long, nar- 
row shape and a queer leaning inward of the side walls and 
stone pilasters, together with the flat arching of the ceiling, 
the effect of the church as a whole is curiously like a ship's 
hold, bottom upward. The architecture is all very interesting 
and marvelous, when one remembers the work was done in a 
remote wilderness under the direction of a couple of friars 
by Indian workmen who shortly before were as wild and 
untrained as plover. I was particularly charmed with the 
carvings of columns, capitals, and archways, done with the 
captivating naivete that so often distinguishes primitive han- 
dicraft. My little cicerone had not much to say about it all, 
possibly (I hope I do her no injustice) because there was a 
small guidebook on the subject for sale in the church. I found 
the slight cost wisely invested; for this book proved to be 
exceptionally well compiled, the work of a young photog- 
rapher of the neighboring seaside resort and center of aesthet- 
icism, Carmel-by-the-Sea. The wall of a small side chapel, 
midway of the church, possesses a unique interest from a bit 
of ancient lettering in colors almost obliterated by time and 
the desecration of unregenerate scribblers; but enough re- 
mains to show it to be a simple prayer in Spanish, addressed 
to the Heart of the Lord — doubtless a part of the old-time 
neophyte devotions. "0 Corazon de Jesus, siempre ardes y 
resplandeces. Encienda e ilumina el mio de tu Amor Divine.'" 
(0 Heart of Jesus, always art thou burning and outshining. 
Kindle and enlighten mine with thy Divine Love.) There 
had been more, but the broken surface leaves it now only to 
be guessed at. 

I had heard that, pursuant to the old custom of burying 
la gente de razon within the Missions, the Mission of San 
Carlos kept watch and ward over the mortal remains of fif- 
teen California governors interred therein. While I am old 

296 



enough in the State to make allowance for the customary 
exuberance of California statistics, I must confess to some 
surprise at finding not a marker of any sort to give evidence 
of even a single gubernatorial presence. I suppose the rec- 
ords of Carmel will testify to some governors lying within its 
walls, for it is a poor Mission that does not claim a tradition- 
ary Spanish high ofl&cial or two in its keeping against the Last 
Day; but for the present the visitor must be content with the 
tradition, and with other tombs. 

For, whatever the case of the governors, Carmel possesses 
an especial glory in the mortal rehcs whose interment near 
the altar is indicated by a tablet on the wall, reading in Latin: 
"Here lie the remains of the Reverend Father Administrator 
Junipero Serra, of the Order of St. Francis, founder and presi- 
dent of the Missions of CaUfornia, laid down in peace the 
28th day of the month of August, a.d. 1784, and of his asso- 
ciates the Reverend Fathers Juan Crespi, Julian Lopez, and 
Francisco Lasuen. May they rest in peace." Also to the in- 
defatigable Father Casanova are to be credited the locating 
and marking of these long-neglected graves. Of the three as- 
sociates of Serra mentioned, Lasuen was an able, courtly friar 
in his day, of great influence in the province, and succeeded 
Serra in the presidency of the Missions. His name on the 
tablet is not given in full: it should be Fermin Francisco 
Lasuen. He was resident at San Carlos at the time of Van- 
couver's visit, and so favorably impressed the EngKsh navi- 
gator that the latter, coasting southward and mapping the 
land, named for him the promontory — Point Fermin — 
which forms the northern barrier to the present harbor of 
Los Angeles. Then, to make a perfect job of it, he named 
another, a few miles farther south, Point Lasuen, thus com- 
pleting this very worthy Padre's geographical commemora- 
tion. Padre Lopez seems to have left no mark on his time, 

297 



and I trust he may in his life have been as happy as the pro- 
verbial people without annals; but Crespi, of whom we heard 
first at San Diego, was one of the best known of the first 
Franciscans. He was Serra's beloved disciple, his fellow- 
worker at San Carlos from 1770 to 1782. His death in the 
latter year brought an especial sadness to Serra, and one of 
the latter's last requests was that, when death claimed him, 
his mortality should be laid beside Father Juan's. Crespi 
was of an alert, joyous nature, and was nicknamed "El 
Beato," (The Blessed). He was, as we have seen, one of Por- 
tola's companions on the famous march of 1769, and took 
part in other exploring expeditions of the early California day. 
His journals make good reading even yet, cheery with the joy 
of adventure and a warm-hearted interest in plants, Indians, 
soldiers, antelopes, and many things besides masses and mat- 
ters ecclesiastical. 

But, of course, it is the tomb of Junipero Serra that gives 
to San Carlos its peculiar preeminence — this and the fact 
that, for thirteen years, from 1 771 to 1784, here on the Carmel 
was Serra's official residence. The original plan was to estab- 
lish the Mission at Monterey, and the foundation was, in fact, 
laid there in 1770. It soon became evident, however, that an 
insufficiency of tillable land at that place made a doubtful 
outlook for the temporal welfare of the Indian converts, while 
their morals were sure to be jeopardized by the nearness of 
the presidio and the coming and going of ships in the port. 
After a year, therefore, the Mission was moved to the se- 
cluded valley where we now find what vandals and the ele- 
ments have left of it. Serra himself was the director of the 
building operations^ on the Carmel, and at times worked 

^ It should be understood that the present stone church is not of Serra's 
building. Though proposed during his lifetime, it was not actually started 
until eight years after his death, in 1792, and was completed in 1797. The site 
of the original adobe church, the one which Serra's Indians erected, is not surely 

29S 



among his Indians as a common laborer. Palou, in his "Life " 
of Serra, gives a graphic picture of that first Christian sum- 
mer in the valley of Carmel. Near the plain hermit's hut, 
open to the chill ocean wind, which el Siervo de Dios (the 
Servant of God)," as Palou dehghts to call him had estab- 
lished for his temporary shelter, a great wooden cross had 
been planted. "His companionship and all his delight," says 
Palou, "were in that sacred symbol." He venerated it with 
the coming of the dawn, and many times a day. Here, under 
the sky, he had the soldiers of the guard gather daily to sing 
the sunrise hymn of praise and the evening Rosary; here every 
morning mass was celebrated, the ground all about darkened 
with kneeHng Indian laborers. When the Gentile Indians, 
lured by the bustle of the building, came visiting from their 
rancherias in the hills, Serra would greet them with afi'ection, 
make the sign of the cross upon their swarthy foreheads, and, 
leading them to this symbol of the Holy Faith, would teach 
them to bow before it. With gifts of glass beads — precious 
in aboriginal eyes as diamonds — and repasts of the boiled 
grains which were a staple in the Mission menu, he laid baits 
to entice them into what he called "the apostolic net," and 
caught 1014 in his thirteen years. At the same time he in- 
terested himself in acquiring their language. I think the hea- 
thenish idiom came hard ; for he says in one of his letters, " the 
learning of a new language is nothing novel to me, but I fear 
I have little grace for it, on account of my sins." 

Better than speaking that tongue of darkness, however, 
he taught the converted Indians a certain phrase of loving 
greeting in Spanish, one to another, that the traveler up and 
down this tough world could wish still to hear from those he 
meets, if wholeheartedly spoken — the phrase amdr d Dios, 

known. Possibly the existing stone church was built around it, and it, then, 
removed. 

299 



(love God). "And [this custom] spread," says Palou, "so 
that even the Gentiles used this salutation, not only to the 
Fathers but to any Spaniard; and it continues so over all this 
vast land, softening the hardest heart to hear the Gentiles, 
the same whether meeting their comrades or the Spaniards 
on the roads, repeat these words, amdr a Dios.'' 

But one looks in vain about Carmel now for an Indian face. 
If one sees at all the flat, heavy features and dumpy figure of 
the aboriginal Californio, it is in white mixture — here where 
in the Padres' days a thousand lived in the Mission's Indian 
village, working seven or eight hours a day and praying two, 
with free barley mush for every one, and the cakings of the 
kettle bottom for the children who best said their catechism. 

Outside the Mission are still some mounds of melted adobes 
and a few roofless shells of mud houses — all that remains, 
besides the church, of an establishment that formerly oc- 
cupied several acres. In the midst of the wreck before the 
church stands a small wooden cross marking the spot where, 
with as much sureness as human knowledge can now deter- 
mine, once was the cell in which Serra rendered up his spirit, 
and somewhere near must have been the Mission cross first 
erected by him. It is hard to forgive Time the leveling of this 
humble adobe hut where that child of St. Francis abode with- 
out other housekeeper than his Lady Poverty. It would be 
to-day a shrine worth a pilgrimage to — to-day when Mam- 
mon has so many. His biographer has left us a picture of it: 
four bare walls, a table, a rush-bottomed stool, and a bed of 
boards with one poor blanket. Here Serra's last hours were 
spent in bodily anguish and spiritual exercise ; and here one 
August day of 1784, while his companions were gone to the 
refectory for their dinner, he entered into the rest that re- 
mains to the people of God. Palou, uneasy to be absent from 
him, returned to find him lying quiet and with closed eyes as 

300 



if asleep, stretched on his boards, his arms enfolding his cruci- 
fix as a lover folds his beloved. Under him was half his 
blanket. The other half he had given away. 

Once a year, on November 4 (which is San Carlos Day), 
or it may be on the first Sunday following, there is a fiesta at 
the old Mission. The church is decorated with greenery and 
flowers, and high mass is celebrated. If the weather be fine, 
there is a large outpouring of people from all the countryside 
around, as well as from Monterey and Carmel-by-the-Sea, 
on horseback and in wagons, on bicycles and afoot, and in 
automobiles. There is more or less of a sprinkling of curious 
sight-seers, but most who attend are residents of the neigh- 
borhood who know one another, and are come for a pleasant 
day of social enjoyment and the ease of their conscience by 
hearing mass. There is much tipping of hats and shaking of 
hands, and rolling of cigarettes, and on all sides it is Como 
'sta, Padre, and Que hay, Juan, or Maria or Tiburcio, as the 
case may be; and a splitting-up into gossiping knots about the 
sunny plaza. There are leather-skinned old men with grizzled 
beards and tight new shoes, and ancient little senoras in black 
mantillas and that general withered look which Tithonus 
doubtless acquired in his old age before he dried up into a 
grasshopper — a look which I seem to have heard is helped 
along by a lifetime's indulgence in dried chilis. Then there 
are bevies of those plump girls with saucy eyes and delightful 
brown complexions underlaid with red that California owes 
to Mexico; and young bloods of paisanos, somewhat shy in 
company, with dimpled, pinched-in sombreros smartened up 
with natty hat-bands of black and white horsehair or Mexican 
stamped leather; and there is no end of fat, bored-looking 
babies with brown skins and beady black eyes in the arms of 
doting parents. A scattering of vaqueros in sheepskin chapar- 

301 



^^^ CaCtfotnia ^aW^ 



reros and spurs, their lariats coiled at their saddle horns, is 
contributed by the cattle ranches of the region, and some- 
times a brace or two of Uncle Sam's troopers from the Mon- 
terey presidio ride over to grace the occasion with their ath- 
letic frames snugly encased in khaki. 

After considerable bell-ringing, all, who will, gather in the 
church for mass and the preaching — the latter in Spanish 
and in English. Then all form in procession, headed by the 
officiating priests, and the acolytes in scarlet and white, bear- 
ing a cross, a relic of San Carlos, and a litter of pine boughs on 
which the image of the saint is placed in a flowery bower. The 
church doors are flung wide and, starting a hymn in San 
Carlos's honor, all march chanting out of the church, around 
it, and back again. At the conclusion of the services, if times 
are prosperous enough to warrant it and the tide of hospitality 
is at flood, there is a barbecue luncheon to which all, friend 
and stranger alike, are welcome; after which, with many an 
adios and hasta luego, the crowd separates to meet again when 
God wills. 



n 

Gabriel the Old, of Mission Cahmel 

/yVI issiONS and fishing go very well together, I find. That 
\*/ ^ is only natural, since many of them are by, or near, 
fishable rivers. Likely enough, too, the fact may have been 
taken advantage of by some of the Padres for purposes of 
recreation. One can very well imagine some poor pestered 
Father, weary of the ever-present problems of his family of a 
thousand or so almost helpless Indians, passing his hand over 
his distracted brow with a "Peste! I can stand no more of 
this to-day. I 'm going fishing." And for circumstantial evi- 
dence, or at least suspicion, there is the fact that when we 
look over the Hst of the odds and ends that were smuggled 
into the country by the Califomians in those early days, when 
life in California meant about the same as exile, we find fish- 
hooks figuring among the contraband of trade. 

However that may be, the lovely Httle Rio Carmelo, that 
flows by Serra's Mission of San Carlos, is a joy to the true — 
that is, the contemplative — angler of to-day. Swift in its 
upper course among the hills, it changes its humor, like most 
of humankind, when it reaches the valley levels, and flows 
calm, bright, but (to sadden the fisherman) shallow, till it 
sweeps by the peaceful Mission, and widens to a reedy lagoon, 
where it listens, hesitating at the solemn, age-long roar of 
breakers on the bar that must be passed before it comes at 
last Home to the peace of the infinite Sea. 

I had been wandering along a mile or two of the river bank 
above the lagoon, dropping my flies here and there in a casual, 
indifferent fashion that, though it did not earn many fish, 
accorded with my laggard mood and the dreamy charm of 

303 



^^t CaCtfotnta ^cibxtB 



time and place. The sun was hot, for it was an August sun, 
and when I became aware that my last half -hour's casting had 
not so much as touched the curiosity of a single listless fish, 
I became listless too, found a grassy spot beneath a tree, 
and sat down. Out in the meadow beyond the thicket of 
small-growth timber that fringed the stream, cattle strayed 
about, or, too lazy to stray, stood crowded in the shade while 
they drowsily ruminated the mystery of flies. Across a field 
or two there showed the buildings of a ranch, to which, I 
guessed, the cattle appertained. 

Presently there was a sound behind me, as if some one was 
moving among the willows, but I was too lazy and comfort- 
able to turn my head. The sound came nearer, and then an 
old man, whom, by his dark skin and shock of thick white 
hair, I took to be a Mexican, appeared, and stood gazing down 
at me with a smile of approbation, as if I was doing the right 
thing. "Pretty hot," he remarked, after a moment, not 
troubling to remove the straw he was chewing. "Pretty hot," 
I responded, too feeble to invent a different phrase. "Yes, 
sir, pretty hot," my friend repeated; then, looking at my rod, 
"Were you fishing?" "Yes," I said; "sit down, won't you?" 
He complied; and in the conversation that followed I learned 
that his name was Tiburcio Flores, and that he lived with his 
son, who was employed at the dairy ranch across the meadow; 
and, among other small particulars, that he had been born in 
Monterey, the son of a Mexican soldier, and had lived about 
this locality all his life. After discussing the fishing, the Mexi- 
can outlook (as to which we agreed that the trouble lay just 
there — too much outlook, each of the leaders wholly looking 
out for himself) , and sundry other topics, I spoke of the Mis- 
sion, and asked if there was any one living in the neighbor- 
hood who remembered it in its former days, before the tooth 
of untimely decay had left its mark. 

304 



"Yes, sir," he answered. "I remember how it used to be 
when I was a boy. It was a large place then, with many In- 
dians, and herds of sheep and cattle, and storehouses full of 
grain. But it did not stay like that for very long. There came 
trouble between the Padres and the Government — that was 
the Mexican Government, not the Americans — and before 
very long the Padres went away and the buildings began to 
get broken down very much, even the church, worse than it is 
now. But I was very young, and I do not remember well. Old 
Gabriel is the one you ought to have seen. He could tell you 
about everything, even about the building of the Mission it- 
self." 

"You don't mean," I said, "that he remembered the build- 
ing of the Mission, himself?" 

"Oh, yes," my friend responded, "and he was not young 
then, either. I often heard him talk about those things, and 
I am sure he said what was true. But he is dead now a long 
time; I think it must be twenty years. He was a hundred and 
fifty years old. I remember the number well, because it was at 
Salinas that he died, and I lived there then. My wife died 
there, when she was seventy-four years old, and Gabriel died 
the day before her; and I remember that the priest who buried 
her said to me that if my wife had lived one more year she 
would only have been half as much as the old Indian Gabriel, 
who was the last one he had buried before." 

"That is wonderful," I said, "but it seems almost impos- 
sible that any one could live to be such an age. Don't you 
think that he forgot how old he really was? Being an Indian, 
he would only be able to go by memory." 

"No," repHed Tiburcio, "it was really true that he was a 
hundred and fifty. He could tell about many things that 
happened when the Padres and the Spaniards came first to 
California, and he was not a boy but a man, even then, and 

305 



had been the head man of his tribe, somewhere down in the 
Tulare country. It was a tribe of not many people, and when 
they got to be only a very few he came away to this coun- 
try and lived here. He was married, and even his chil- 
dren were married and had children too, when the Spaniards 
came to Monterey. That seems strange, but then, I know 
that the Indians used to be married when they were very 
young. 

"You have heard of Padre Serra, who was the chief one of 
the Padres who came at j&rst? Well, it was Padre Serra who 
gave him the name of Gabriel when he was baptized to be a 
Christian. Gabriel said that he was the first one of all the 
Indians that the Padre baptized, and he was very proud of 
that, but he used to cry when he talked about it. He could 
tell, too, about helping to build the Mission, as I said. He 
learned to be an alhanil — what you call mason, is it not? one 
who builds? — and when the Padres began to build the Mis- 
sions he was one of the best to help at the work. Not only 
here and at Monterey, but at the other Missions, like San 
Antonio and Soledad, he helped the Padres with the building. 
I often heard him tell about how they went to begin the Mis- 
sions, the priests and the soldiers and the Indians who were 
to build, all together. The first thing always was to build an 
enramada out of brush, and the Padres would say mass in 
that until a church was built out of adobes. 

"But Padre Serra was the one of the Padres that Gabriel 
liked best to tell about. He must have been a very good man, 
that Padre. He used to work with the Indians as if he was a 
peon himself, Gabriel said, lifting the heavy pieces of wood, 
and making adobes; and he was always kind to every one. 
Very holy he was, too. He would pray often all night, and 
when he preached he would burn himself with a candle on the 
breastj so that the people might think how bad hell would be. 

306 



The Indians used to cry, and beg him not to bum himself 
like that, but he did it to teach them to be good Christians. 
I remember, too, that Gabriel said that often in the first 
years there was hardly anything to eat, and the old Padre 
(that was what they called Padre Serra, because he was older 
than the other priests there) would have just the same as the 
Indians : if they were hungry he would be hungry, too ; and he 
used to talk to them and try to make them feel better by say- 
ing always kind words, and telUng them that God would 
help them; and I think He always did help them, too, be- 
cause the Padre was so good. Padre Serra used to make 
clothes for the Indians as well, and sewed them himself, like 
a woman: so it is no wonder that the Indians loved him, and 
wanted to stay at the Mission where he was. 

"Another thing that used to make Gabriel cry to tell about 
was how the old Padre died. He died at the Mission, over 
there, and Gabriel was one who was there. The Padre was 
sick for a long time and had very bad pain in his chest, so that 
many nights he did not lie down at all on the bed, but sat 
on the floor, and one of the Indians held him up. Sometimes 
it was Gabriel who did that. After the Padre was dead, there 
was a mass the next day when he was to be buried, and all the 
Indians came with flowers out of the fields, so that the coflBin 
was covered over with them; and Gabriel said that the In- 
dians who sang (he was one of them) were crying so that they 
could not sing the music properly. 

"All those things Gabriel used to talk about, and there are 
many that I have forgotten. Until he got too old, when he 
was more than a hundred, he used to make reatas and riendas 
out of rawhide, and serapes of wool. I remember how funny 
he used to look, for he liked to sew little pieces of the wool, 
that were bright, on to his coat, so that it was of all colors, 
like the coat of the cara sticia at a circus. He always had a red 

307 



^^e Cafifomta ^abtre0 



handkerchief round his head under his hat, and sometimes 
he would forget and put another hat on the top as well. 

"When he was very old he went to Salinas to live. I have 
heard that after he went there he forgot how to speak the 
Spanish and English, and used to talk the language that his 
tribe talked when he lived in the Tulare country; but there 
was no one who could understand, so he was like a mudo, and 
did not talk at all for a long time before he died. That must 
have been very hard for him, almost like being dead, for he 
was very fond of talking about the old times. I should not 
like to live so long as to be like that, but it is as the good God 
wills for all. I have heard that the priest at SaHnas took his 
picture and sent it to the Pope, in Italy, because he was the 
oldest one of all the Catholics who was aHve. To think of 
that ! Old Gabriel, who used to sit on the ground over there 
and make reatas for the vaqueros, to have his picture sent to 
the Pope, as if he was a santo, — a holy man! 

"Well, sir, there is a good wind coming up, and the fish 
will bite better from now till evening. It is in the laguna that 
you will catch most. I could show you the place where there 
are the biggest ones, but I have to go to help at the milking." 
And with a courteous adios my friend left me. 

Evening was coming on as I took my leisurely way home- 
ward, picking up a trout here and there out of dusky pool or 
flashing rapid. From time to time I caught glimpses of the 
Mission, rising in thoughtful cahn against a sky of wistful 
evening gold. The cattle were trooping home. Swallows, 
most dear, most enrapturing of birds, dipped and flickered 
above the peaceful meadows, the multitudinous little voices, 
shrilly sweet, filling the air with a childlike, innocent joy that 
seems always, to me, like what must be the joy of the angels. 
Through it all, the shining river swept along, drawing on 
ever toward the ceaseless calUng of the sea. 

308 



I stopped at twilight for an hour about the Mission. In the 
warm dusk I climbed the worn steps to the belfry, where 
sleepy linnets chid me for the intrusion, as, no doubt, their 
progenitors chid Gabriel the Old in his day, and as their suc- 
cessors will chide others when I have joined him — where? 
I sprang my finger against the bell. A solemn tone, like a 
shadow embodied in sound, responded, lingering, clinging 
to coign and corner, as if afraid, before it floated out upon the 
darkening air. A chill came in the breeze, or in my mind, I 
know not which; but as I turned to go, there, still, was the 
sunset in the west, warm, golden, cheering, prophetic of resur- 
rection, of love, of God.^ 

^ There have been many well-authenticated cases of extraordinary age hav- 
ing been attained by our Cahfornia Indians; and though this of old Gabriel 
exceeds all others, there were many circumstances, known to Father Sorrentini, 
the priest who ministered at Salinas, in 1896 (the place and year of Gabriel's 
death), which seemed to warrant the belief that the truly astonishing age of 
one himdred and fifty-one years, credited to him, was a fact. Father Sorrentini 
himself was fully convinced of the reliability of the figures. 



SAN JUAN BAUTISTA 




Mission San Juan Bautista and Padre Arroyo of 
THE Many Tongues 

H may already have intimated that I object to visiting anti- 
^ quities by automobile. It was a genuine pleasure, there- 
fore, on arriving by the train at Sargent to find drawn up at 
the platform an old-time two-horse stage with "U. S. Mail" 
painted in yellow letters on the dingy red body, prepared 
to transport me the six miles up the San Juan Valley to that 
Mission which the Spanish Franciscans on St. John's Day, 
1797, dedicated to "The Glorious Precursor of Jesus Christ, 
our Lord, Saint John Baptist." In charge was an old-time 
stage-driver, who had lived in the neighborhood half a hfe- 
time and was never happier than when chatting about it, as 
he flicked his whip innocuously over the backs of his roly- 
poly horses, and thrust the morning papers into the various 
ranch mail-boxes along the way. It was a bright sunny day, 
with a fresh cool wind drawing up the wide valley, and the 
meadowlarks made melody in all the fields, which were fenced 
in with the redwood pickets of the region. "Not so pretty as 
some fences," the driver remarked, "but the best lasting on 
earth." 

San Juan Bautista is a cozy, shady, polyglot country town, 
where, if you can speak Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Chin- 
ese, or Japanese, you will do almost as well as with English. 
Moreover, it has the complacent pretensions to antiquity 
which attach to all CaHfomia communities that antedate 
1849. It really has a look of some age, however, and its 

313 



^§e CaCifowia ^<Kbxt0 



old hotel, with its rambling rooms and second-story bal- 
cony, has staged considerable Mexican-American history of 
a certain kind of the date of the Gringo conquest. It faces on 
a generous locust-bordered plaza, and diagonally across from 
it stands the old Mission, which would be one of the most 
delightful of all the Brotherhood but for an inept, modern 
tower, cut o£f square at the shoulders, which surmoimts the 
church entrance. The cool corridor, with its worn, echoing 
pavement of ladrillos; the square brick pillars stained and 
broken by Time into a greater beauty, I suspect, than they 
possessed in their spick-and-span youth; and the outlook 
through the arches and the fringe of locust trees to the peace- 
ful plaza and beyond — these were altogether lovely. At 
the corridor's far end a wicket opened to an inclosure before 
the church entrance — a quaint little garden, the most strik- 
ing feature of which was a variety of clipped and topped 
Monterey cypresses, one of them clasping in an umbrageous 
embrace the tall cross near which it was planted. Over the 
doorway to the church was an inscription in Latin: "This 
is the house of God and portal of Heaven." It was humiliat- 
ing to one's Americanism to observe that it had become need- 
ful to post near by, this other advertisement: "Notice is 
hereby given to persons lunching on the grounds hereof, that 
we are pleased to have them do so, but earnestly request them 
to clean up all papers and rubbish before leaving." 

A little Mexican girl, whom my ring brought with a big 
key, admitted me to the church interior. It was largely dis- 
mantled, but picturesque still, with its worn floor of square 
tiles and its simple but dignified closed arcades in relief upon 
the walls, from which the plaster was breaking away. Though 
bare, it was not gloomily bare, for a great gap in the wall near 
the altar let a blessing of sunlight into the darkling interior. 
The earthquakes of 1906, which had desolated San Francisco, 

314 



had shaken and cracked San Juan Bautista, too; and in fear 
of a possible further falling-in of the building, the altar fur- 
nishings and other ecclesiastical matter had been removed to 
the convento part, where a room was converted into a chapel. 
A few days before my visit another tremor had put a crack 
or two more in the walls, the little guide informed me, "And 
I'm afraid to go far inside," she added ingenuously, "but if 
you want to walk down the church to the altar and look 
around, you go. I '11 wait for you here by the big door." 

I imdertook the perilous pilgrimage, particularly as I 
wished to inspect two fixtures of the church, the altar and the 
pulpit, which have an almost unique interest. The work of 
decorating the altar, which was not finished until 1818, was 
offered, it appears, to an artist of the time, one Chaves, by 
name; but this grasping genius, perhaps beheving that he 
Jjad a monopoly in high art, asked compensation at the rate 
per diem of six reales, — that is, seventy-five cents. That the 
missionaries deemed beyond the establishment's means, and 
casting about for a cheaper bidder, they chanced upon Felipe 
Santiago Doc. This painter of the abbreviated surname should 
be of more than passing interest to Calif ornians; for, if the 
researches of Mr. H. H. Bancroft are to be credited, he was the 
first American to settle officially in CaUfornia — his original 
name being Thomas Doak and himself a Yankee tar, hailing 
from Boston. He deserted from some vessel that touched on 
the coast, and became a good Catholic and a naturalized 
Californio. What he charged the Padres for his labors I do 
not find set down, but naturally it could have been little more 
than board and lodging. Perhaps to that waif of the sea, 
with the memory of existence in a windjammer's forecastle 
still fresh upon him, life in a Mission may have been in itself 
return enough. At any rate, it is of record that this same 
Felipe Santiago, "by the help of God and some muchachos,'^ 

315 



Z^t Cafifotnia ^(XbxtB 

achieved the altar decorations of San Juan Bautista; and I 
find pleasure in knowing that the faded painting about the 
empty niches and panels of the abandoned sanctuary upon 
which I looked was laid on by the hands of that American- 
Calif ornian, and his little redskin boys. It was a better busi- 
ness than shooting Indians and sharping in real estate, as 
was fashionable with his countrymen in Cahfornia a genera- 
tion later. 

Then there was the quaint old box of a pulpit fixed to one 
side wall, well up above the latter-day pews that still occu- 
pied the nave. A small placard on the front declared that from 
this pulpit Father Arroyo preached to the Indians in thirteen 
native dialects. A famous Padre was this Arroyo, or, to give 
him his full name, Felipe del Arroyo de la Cuesta, (Philip 
of the Hill-brook). For a quarter of a century, from 1808 
to 1833, he served at San Juan Bautista. He was a skilled 
linguist, and much of his leisure was employed in committing 
to writing vocabularies of the various Indian dialects of the 
region. These have been preserved and form an important 
contribution to our first-hand knowledge of native linguistics. 
Our gossip Don Alfredo gives a pleasant picture of the kind- 
hearted old man, who was a sufferer from rheumatism, and 
during the tedious hours of his confinement to his chambers, 
liked to have the Indian children sent in to play about him 
as he lay. It gave him a whimsical sort of pleasure to apply 
to these dusky whelplings of the wild the names of famous 
characters of antiquity, such as Plato, Alexander, and 
Cicero; though it is hardly to be supposed that he baptized 
them so. 

Captain Beechey, too (who, with a party bound to Mon- 
terey, stopped overnight at this Mission in 1826), bears wit- 
ness to Padre Arroyo's cheerful hospitality. There were no 
hotels in California in those days, you must remember, and 

316 



outside of the infrequent towns almost no private houses, 
so the Missions kept open house for all travelers. The Padre 
set before the Beechey party the best the Mission larder 
afforded, and urged them on to the consumption of it with 
many a quip and proverb. 

"Un dia alegre vale cien anos de pesadumbre," he quoted: 
"one happy day is worth a century of sadness." 

After supper he entertained them with stories of bears 
and Indians, and sang them Spanish patriotic songs; for he, 
like most of the first Franciscans, was a royalist and looked 
askance at Mexican republicanism. At bedtime in came a 
luncheon of cold frijoles, bread and eggs — the vidtico for the 
night, the Padre called it; and then he escorted them to their 
sleeping-rooms. I beUeve there were fleas — or it may have 
been Robinson who was nearly devoured by this national 
insect of California; but in either case, it does not matter, 
that old-fashioned, generous hospitaHty without thought of 
money return, is what we want to remember, something that 
outlasts all concomitant discomforts, even flea bites. In the 
morning, the travelers were for starting off early for their 
thirty-five-mile ride to Monterey, but the Padre would on 
no account permit it until he had had them in to mass. 

"No, no," he said, with authority that they could not es- 
cape, Protestants though they were, and drove the matter 
home with another dicho: — 

" Oir misa y dar cehada 

No impede Jornada." 

(To hear mass and give alms delays no journey.) 

It helps us, I think, to reahze the Missions as the humaniz- 
ing agencies they were, to recall these old stories veined as 
they are with the quality of comradery with all men; and I 
wish I might have had them in mind as I loitered by Padre 
Arroyo's pulpit that day; but I may as well confess that it was 

317 



$$e CaCifotnia ^cibx^B 

not until some months afterward that I picked up these his- 
torical tidbits in some odds and ends of old books. 

When I rejoined our little Barbarita, waiting in the safe 
sunlight of the doorway, there was the choir loft to be chmbed 
into for a bird's-eye view of the church, and a side room in 
which I now remember only a queer old dovecote from which, 
on Pentecost Sunday, it was customary to release a dove to 
flutter down the church crowded with kneeling Indians. 

"It represented Our Lord," said Barbarita, turning grave 
eyes upon me. 

Then I had to be shown into a cell-like baptistery with 
light falling from a high window upon the stone font where 
the Indians were baptized; and from that across the church 
through an outer doorway into the mouldering old cemetery 
where in the arms of Holy Church these dusky heaven- 
bound pilgrims — 8900 of them, according to the testimony 
of a board on the wall — await the Last Day. Here olive 
trees cast a meditative shade and the ground sloped gently 
down to a flat where was an ancient pear orchard of the 
Padres' planting, and still bearing, Barbarita averred. San 
Juan was famous in its day for the excellence of its European 
fruits, and De Mofras writes rapturously of the pears he had 
there in 1841, d'un goUt exquis. 

This exhausted the church sights, but our little damsel 
had others in store; and locking up the church with her big 
key, she pattered on ahead and ushered me into the main 
hall of the convento. There she took me into a regular grand- 
mother's attic of a room, filled with many a relic of the Mis- 
sion's past — vellum-bound books, manuscript music with 
the usual square notation in colors on parchment, battered 
little cowhide trunks, a queer old barrel-organ, and what-not. 
An old cabinet contained picture post-cards and some sawn 
blocks of the Mission pearwood, which Barbarita gave me to 

318 



understand might be purchased for the benefit of a fund to 
repair the building — a work which Father Valentin Closa, 
the resident priest for now forty years, was very anxious to 
have furthered. 

I responded somewhat prodigally to this opportunity in the 
mercenary hope that I might be allowed entrance into the 
interior garden, an enchanting glimpse of which I had caught 
from the church. Barbarita, clutching her dollar, flew excit- 
edly with my request to some inner sanctum, and presently 
returned with jubilation to pilot me into the corridor that 
skirted the garden. Here the housekeeper welcomed me, a 
stout, good-humored paisana, who told me to make myself at 
home. It was a simple old-fashioned hodge-podge of a coun- 
try garden with lilies and roses, marigolds and hollyhocks, 
and sprawling shrubs of one kind and another, dwelHng lov- 
ingly together in Christian enjoyment of a Hfe all shut away 
from the fretful world, and quite innocent of the man-made 
conventions of landscape gardening. There were grapevines, 
too, and some fruit trees beyond, I believe; and, even as I 
write, in far other surroundings, there abides with me a sense 
of mingled sunHght and shadow, of bird song, the hum of bees 
and the sweet fragrance of flowers in a general atmosphere of 
restfulness. It would have accorded with my sentiment could 
I have believed that some of these garden plants had actually 
been set out by Padre Arroyo. It is doubtful, though, if any 
of his day survived the years of spoUation and neglect follow- 
ing secularization; but a sundial, which I found standing in 
the garden's midst, was, I was told, of the Indians' making 
under the missionaries' direction. 

When I had no longer an excuse for staying, the buxom 
housekeeper showed me out, and, as I parted, I referred jocu- 
larly to the little girl's fear of the church falling on her. The 
woman turned away her eyes. 

319 



Z^t CaCifovnta ^cCbxt^ 



"She just said that," she hesitated; "we have to tell her 
not to go with strangers into the dark parts of the church. 
It is a wicked world, senor." 

As I passed on down the corridor a candle that was kept 
burning before the altar in the little chapel room cast a gleam 
through the window, and a hope that might have been a 
prayer was awakened in me, that the old Mission's light 
might increasingly shine to the lightening of the darkness of 
sin about it. 



II 

"He Hath Made of One Flesh ..." 

/^BOUT the most pathetic things to be seen in California 
Vo are the cemeteries of the Indians. Near every Mis- 
sion and rancheria you will find one of them, a httle inclosure 
within sagging wooden railings, fiUed with those low mound 
shapes which proclaim so eloquently the work of the Great 
Leveler. Many of the graves are almost obliterated, many 
more, of course, entirely so; while here and there will be seen 
one more recently, or perhaps quite newly, formed. Few of 
the graves are separately railed, and of such inclosures as 
there may once have been, there are usually only a few loose 
pickets remaining. But nearly every mound has its cross. 
Many of them have fallen, or are leaning to fall, but it seems 
as if, even on the oldest of the graves, care has been taken by 
some one that the Sign of our Redemption should not be 
wanting. 

On most or many of the graves — always on those that are 
not evidently old — there are simple embellishments, in 
which, more than in anything else, Hes the pathos that I feel 
in these humble places (and which, I will confess, I somehow 
miss — though I would gladly find it — in the elegant wreaths 
and evidences of tasteful care that mark our modem ceme- 
teries). Broken articles of cheap china or glassware, shells, 
faded scraps of decorated calico, stones of special smoothness 
or color — anything that is of attraction to the childlike 
mind of the Indian, is used to enrich or beautify the resting- 
place of the dead. A handleless cup, a rusty fruit-can, or a 
tarnished lamp-bowl, may hold a bunch of long-withered 
flowers. I have seen a broken alarm-clock, valued as a rarity 

321 



^S}t Cafifotmia ^Cibxt& 



or for its polished metal, hung from one of these humble 
crosses (odd, that there should have come to be such a dis- 
parity in our conceptions that what one man calls rubbish is 
a curious treasure to his brother). 

The inscriptions, when readable at all, are usually confined 
to a record of the name, with the age and the date of death. 
Often one, or even both, of the last two items is omitted, and 
the simple name, perhaps with R. I. P., or the resistless ap- 
peal, Ruega por mi, is all that the shapeless lettering reveals 
of the sleeper who lies beneath. I often think that there 
could well be another Gray who might write a sister elegy to 
the immortal poem, with one of these unkempt, Indian, but 
most human, graveyards for his theme. 

I was sitting, a year or two ago, in the corridor of San Juan 
Bautista, talking with the priest in charge of the quaint and 
beautiful old church. We were speaking of the fate that has 
fallen on the Missions, of the phenomenon — it is really such 
— of their quick declension to almost complete abandonment 
and ruin, and of those characteristics of their former Indian 
charges which had enabled Serra and his helpers and follow- 
ers to achieve their remarkable success. "I will give you an 
instance of their gentle natures," said the Father, " that came 
under my notice only yesterday. You saw that the grass had 
been burned over part of the cemetery? It happened two days 
ago. I set one of the men to burning off weeds along the front 
of the Mission, and he carelessly let the fire get away, so that 
it crossed the fence and ran into the dry grass and leaves in 
the cemetery. It burned down part of the fence, and some 
of the railings and crosses of the graves: they were old, and as 
dry as tinder. Well, yesterday as I was crossing the grave- 
yard I noticed old Pablo, one of my oldest Indians, down on 
his knees among the debris. I went over to see what he was 
doing there, and found him crying, yes, crying like a little 

322 




IN THE INDIAN CEMETERY, MISSION SAN JUAN BAUTISTA 



child, old Pablo, who must be nearly eighty. 'What is the 
matter, Pablo?' I asked. *0h, Padre,' he said, 'mi mama! mi 
mamdr It was the grave of his mother: it had been burned 
over and the cross destroyed. She must have died thirty 
years ago, at the very least, but the spot was sacred to old 
Pablo stiU. That seems to bear out the argument of his name- 
sake the holy apostle, in preaching to the wise pagans of 
Athens, that God has made us all of one blood, does it not? 
... I wonder who will care v/here my old bones lie, after 
thirty years? . . . In manus tuas, Domine. . . . Well, Pablo 
shall have a new cross for his mother's grave to-morrow." 



SANTA CRUZ 







Looking in at Santa Cruz, and the Story op 
Padre Gil's Adventure in English 

^^HERE is still the lovely outlook from Mission HiU upon 
^^ the sparkhng waters of Monterey Bay, as in the Padre's 
time; but there is no Mission, and there are few memories. 
Little seems ever to have happened at Santa Cruz that 
is of interest to twentieth centurists, except, perhaps, the 
atrocious murder of Padre Quintana by some of his rascally 
neophytes in a maimer too unspeakably horrible to go into. 
Situated off the main trunk of the Camino Real, which be- 
tween Santa Clara and Monterey ran by way of San Juan 
Bautista thirty miles to the eastward, the Mission Santa 
Cruz was sidetracked from the first and lived an isolated ex- 
istence. As for the buildings, church and convento are gone as 
thoroughly as if they had never been. If it be Mission interest, 
then, that takes you to Santa Cruz, it is a case of short horse 
soon curried. 

Nevertheless, the memory of my morning on Mission Hill, 
to which I climbed, following the car track as guide, is a 
pleasant one. It is never wise, I think, for one with anything 
of the antiquary in his make-up to stay away from a spot 
with a past, just because everybody tells him there is noth- 
ing left to see. Often there is an impalpable atmosphere lin- 
gering about such places, unfelt by the indifferent, but appre- 
hensible by the mind of love; and it pays to get into it. What 
really happens to one under such circumstances is a state of 
mind; and for that reason I find it folly to make the visit in 

327 



t'^t CaCifovnia ^ck^uq 

an impatient automobile and with a time-table in my hand. 
On foot, and with the placidity of spirit that succeeds a com- 
fortable breakfast, is better. That was my method; and ex- 
pecting nothing, I was in the humor to accept gratefully the 
few crumbs that fell to me. 

Though the gray brethren have vanished from Mission Hill 
and their Indians with them, I found the few acres of church 
land where the old establishment stood, a-bustle with good 
works. There was, for instance, the Convent and School of 
the Holy Cross — and Holy Cross, it there first struck me, is 
good English for Santa Cruz; and there were merry children 
at excited play in the yard under the circumspect eyes of 
Sisters in flaring white headdresses. Beyond the playground 
was the charming old garden of the convent, with Monterey 
cypresses trimmed in the shape of huge truncated cones, and 
shady walks where fruit trees yielded their beneficences in 
season. Then there was the Priory of the Christian Brothers, 
with another noisy school attached; and next to that, I found 
an astonishingly tall brick church with an aspiring steeple. 
A board on the outer wall labeled the edifice "The Church 
of the Holy Cross"; but another under the vestibule to the 
effect that "Ladies and Gentlemen will not and Others Must 
not Leave the Church until Services are Over," acted upon 
me as a chilly deterrent to further investigation. A sort of 
granite triptych, frankly un-Mission in its architecture, 
served as a triple gateway to the church grounds, and an 
inscription commemorating the Mission established on the 
spot in 1 791, was the only hint of former Franciscan occu- 
pation. 

At the rear the hills fall abruptly away to the bottom lands 
of the San Lorenzo River, which runs singing to the sea through 
thickets of buckeye and azalea out of the Santa Cruz Moun- 
tains. The shaggy wooded slope rising beyond the little 

328 



stream made an inviting view, and strolling across to the 
edge of the church grounds, I sat down on the turf for a bit 
of leisurely contemplation. At my feet a deep-worn trail 
plunged through some bushes down the hillside toward the 
cottages and truck gardens visible in the lowlands. In a few 
moments the bushes parted, and out of them by the trail 
climbed the tall figure of an elderly gentleman, his coat upon 
his arm and on his head a hat of the "wide-awake" pattern 
that old-time Westerners are apt to affect. He had a good- 
humored type of face to which a pair of steel-rimmed spec- 
tacles contributed a poor-scholar kind of cast, and as he 
paused for breath, he gave me a pleasant good-morning. 
Finding me interested in the Mission, he dropped on his 
haunches for a chat. 

"Old times interest me, too," he said. "I used to be a 
lawyer, but am on the retired list now, and I like to post my- 
self on what our predecessors in the land did for us ; so I enjoy 
mousing about libraries and old garrets. Yes, scenes have 
certainly changed on this hill since 1791. There's a painting 
in the rectory here of the Mission as it looked in its heyday 
and it shows as fine an old Franciscan front as you would want 
to see — square-towered church, with tiled roof and but- 
tressed walls, convento wing with pillared arcade and railing, 
and all that. But it's gone this many a day, root and branch, 
except that bit of old adobe wall there," — pointing toward 
the back of the church where, half choked in a hedge, a crum- 
bling line of adobe could be seen — " they say that is left from 
the Padres' days, and maybe it is, but that's all. 

"Seems a pity, does n't it? There was n't a better site in 
the entire CaKfornian chain than this, with all kinds of water, 
timber and building stone, and shells to your hand for lime, 
and as fertile soil as can be found anywhere on earth, since the 
garden of Eden went off the map. Every fall, for years, the 

329 



English and American whalers that ran into Monterey used 
to get their fresh vegetables and fruits from this Mission's 
gardens and fields. But one trouble they had here that no 
other Mission had was civilization — so called. I mean it was 
too near white people. The Mission had hardly got going be- 
fore a white colony was started, just across the river there — • 
you could almost have thrown a stone into it from where we 
are sitting. It was illegally founded there, because the Span- 
ish law forbade a white pueblo's being started within a league 
of a Mission or an Indian town. Nevertheless, it was done 
just as a lot of illegahties have always been done in this shifty 
old world; for it was a long way to court in Mexico City, 
where the Padres had to apply for redress. 

"Well, sir, the Government gave that colony a fine send- 
off with tools and stuff enough to have started a dozen Mis- 
sions on the Franciscan plan, and christened it with a swell 
name in the high-flown Spanish style, La Villa de Branciforte. 
But the colonists! O Lord! They were the limit — just so 
many jailbirds, ragged vagabonds, and cutthroats from Old 
Mexico — the real thing in the dime-novel Greaser type. And 
they called themselves gente de razon, people of intelligence, 
the term by which white folks in those days distinguished 
themselves from Indians. But the Padres sized up that 
gente de razon business. I remember reading of one who said 
in a sermon : ' There are two races in this country very dis- 
tinct — the barbarous and the semi-barbarous. The semi- 
barbarous are the poor Indians ; the barbarous are the people 
who call themselves intelligent, but have no intelligence. We 
find among the Indians at least docility and love of work, but 
with the whites it is continual gambling, idleness, and drunk- 
enness.' Well, with such a bunch, of course, the colony was 
a failure from the start, and after a generation or so it winked 
out utterly; but while it was there, it gave the missionaries no 

330 



end of trouble, continually debauching the Indians and 
creating scandals enough to have made the fortune of a 
modern newspaper. The Mission outKved it, but not with- 
out wounds that never healed. 

"Wonderful old fellows, those Padres, weren't they? I 
tell you, it took executive ability and knowledge of a high 
order to come into a wilderness country the way they did, 
induce a lot of savages to become decent, and build up, with 
almost no help from home, communities rich in material 
wealth. It took faith, too, Christian faith, or they would not 
have put it through. Don't tell me they were a self-indulgent, 
trencher-loving lot. Of course, they were human and had 
their foibles, and without women to keep them straight, men 
are bound to get cranky at times; but I know men and I know 
the world, and I know they could n't have done what they 
did, surmounting the difficulties they had to, except by the 
road of self -discipline and self-sacrifice. I want to tell you one 
funny story, though — " 

And the old gentleman laughed softly as he shifted his 
weight on his legs : — 

"About one friar, who was here at Santa Cruz between 
1820 and '30 — his name Luis Gil y Taboada — a kindly old 
soul, but he got awfully tired of CaHfornia; so that, as he said, 
every year got to seem like a century : but for some reason or 
another, he never could secure permission to go back to 
Mexico. They just kept pushing him on from one Mission to 
another till the old fellow had served at half the establish- 
ments in the province. Well, here at Santa Cruz, he stuck ten 
years, and, while he was still here and alone much of the time 
(for in the declining days of the Missions there were n't al- 
ways enough friars to go around double), along came an 
Irishman named John Milligan or Mulligan, who had got 
stranded in California from some ship and could n't get away. 

331 



€^t Cafifotmia {pabxt^ 

He was a roistering blade with an unquenchable thirst for 
aguardiente, and was a good deal of a nuisance; but he was a 
practical weaver, and the Padres used to have him at the 
different Missions to teach his trade to the neophytes. So 
at Santa Cruz he and Padre Luis struck up a friendship ; and 
the Padre, to drive away his ennui, I suppose, and also be- 
cause he had a philological turn and had already picked up a 
couple of Indian languages, conceived the notion of getting 
Mulligan to teach him English. Now there were n't any Eng- 
lish printed books in CaHfornia in those days, and, of course, 
the poor Padre had to take as gospel anything that devil of 
an Irishman told him. The result of his teaching came out 
when Gil was transferred to San Luis Obispo, as he was 
finally, and there he was met by Alfred Robinson, a Massa- 
chusetts trader who came to CaHfornia in those days and 
wrote a book about life in California under the Mexican re- 
gime. You ought to read it, though it 's out of print now and 
scarce. Well, when Robinson, fresh from the States, came 
cantering up to San Luis Obispo Mission, out came Padre 
Luis in the hospitable Mission way to bid him welcome; and, 
knowing his guest to be a Yankee, poHtely addressed him with 
a stock of Mulligan English, and this is what it was: 'How do 
you do, sir? Very good oysters, Mr. Fish. Come in! May the 
devil skin you to make your grandmother a nightcap ! ' — and 
followed it with a string of the most outrageous oaths; after 
which he dropped affably into Spanish. That, it seems, had 
been taught the innocent friar as the most approved form of 
English salutation to one whom it was desired to honor. 
Robinson says Mulligan was a Scotchman; but the internal 
evidence of the story disproves that. Was n't it a shame?" 



II 

The Children of Holy Cross 

^S^iTTiNG one summer morning on the beach at Santa Cruz, 
^^ I watched the children at play. Children, I suppose, 
except for a Paul Dombey here and there, one in a hundred 
thousand, see in the ocean, if it be summer, only its joyous- 
ness of motion and brilliance of color and light — the things 
congenial to childhood. Unsuspecting and without experi- 
ence, they do not feel the shallowness of the glitter, the fickle- 
ness in the smile, the warning in that restless beauty. For life 
has not chilled them with hinted analogies, and the age of 
poetry, when doubts begin to rise, is still before them. 

To me, the bright and shining sea brings most often a mood 
of reverie ; and as I sat and watched the play of the daintily 
clad children and the blaze of surf and laugh of wavelet on the 
sunny sands of Monterey Bay, I found myself following a far- 
drawn thread of fancy. 

I had been reading, that morning, something of the history 
of the Missions, one of which, now entirely vanished, had 
been established here at Santa Cruz. It is not possible to read 
the story, or to visit the Missions that remain or the ruins or 
sites of those that have fallen, without being shocked again 
and again at the tragedy of the Indian. In a statement of the 
results of the work of the Missions down to the year 1820, pre- 
pared by Father Jose Senan, the president of the missionaries 
at that date, it is shown that in what may be considered a 
generation's length of time there had been baptized a total 
of over seventy thousand Indians, while at the date of the 
report there were over twenty thousand baptized Indians 
living under the care of the Padres. And the Missions, be it 

333 



Z^t CaCifotnia ^a)>xtB 



remembered, drew mainly upon the coast tribes for their con- 
verts; the native populations of the great interior valleys and 
of the mountains, though it was hoped they would be eventu- 
ally reached, were scarcely touched, or only as troublesome 
and hostile neighbors. To-day one finds here and there a 
dwindHng village, usually in some dry and worthless spot, 
where Hve all that remains of the flourishing population of a 
century ago. Often, in visiting the ruined Missions, I have 
asked of some one living near whether any of the Indians 
who formerly lived there could be found, from whom I might 
learn items of interest. In one or two cases I have heard 
of some old Domingo or Encarnacion who dwelt, hermitlike, 
far up some secluded canon; but usually not even a legend 
remained. And these Indians, too, are naturally a very long- 
lived people. 

What, then, has become of them? Or rather, it is not the 
where or the how, but the why of their almost total disap- 
pearance that one asks one's self. For ages the Indian lives 
undisturbed. He does not live well, nor usefully, nor does he 
rise in the human scale, or only to an infinitesimal degree; 
but, he lives. Then comes the herald of Christianity: the 
feet that bring good tidings cross the mountains. The won- 
dering Indian hears and sees the better way, and hesitatingly 
adopts it. No longer a mere item in the animal life of the land, 
he is baptized to the new religion: he is taught, clothed; his 
name is entered on books of record. Did he but know it, that 
writing is his death-warrant. 

And everywhere it is the same. From time to time we meet 
references to the subject in magazines and Government 
papers, but the solutions proposed have somehow the air of 
experiments, and not very hopeful ones. It is a compUcated 
subject, and, when all is said, the summing-up in the stu- 
dent's mind can only be, that the Indian should flee the white 

334 



man as a plague; and even that will not avail, for the plague 
will follow him. 

But that morning, as I watched the play, my mind turned 
especially upon the bygone children of the Missions. I seemed 
to see the troops of merry Indian youngsters who once played 
about the sands of Santa Cruz, saiHng their mimic cayucos 
on the quiet pools, or racing with the laughing ripples up the 
beach, or shooting their arrows in the sun. (For childhood, at 
least, is happy, even with the grave and silent Indian.) Then, 
up on the cHff, a bell chimes. There is a shout and a scamper, 
and soon, under the cool, deep arches of the Mission, they 
assemble about the gray-robed Padre who patiently teaches 
them to pronounce the sacred words (and, indeed, it is a task 
of patience); or perhaps they learn their parts in a simple 
religious play for Easter or Christmas. Soon again I see them 
gather with fathers and mothers in their humble huts to the 
evening meal of atole; then for an hour their voices again ring 
in play about the great courtyard; and when daylight ends, 
they lie down to sleep on their pallets of straw till morning 
shall bring another day of harmless joy. 

There is a well-known picture, I forget by whom, the title 
of which might be, the Holy Iimocents. One sees a host of 
children, infants, all happy, laughing, romping, as they pass 
in joyous procession through a child's fairyland of flowers and 
birds and shining streams. At the head of the band is the 
Sign of their triumph, the Holy Cross. They are the children 
who died for Christ, those whom Herod killed in Bethlehem, 
the saviors, one might almost say, of Our Lord. As I watched 
the happy children of Holy Cross that morning at their play, 
my mind, preoccupied with the thought of the children of the 
Missions, brought up this picture before me, and I seemed to 
see another appHcation of the painter's fancy. Those children 
of the Missions, doomed to pass away at the coming of the 

335 



€$^ CaCifotnia ^ctbtts 

new religion that seemed to promise them better life — were 
not they, in their way, innocent victims for Christ? And do 
not they, too, somewhere triumph, happy that they should 
have provided the needful sacrifice? 

A far-fetched notion, I suppose; yet there seemed a reality 
in it that morning, as I watched the dainty play by the sea, 
and my thoughts went back to the long-dead children of Holy 
Cross. 



SANTA CLARA DE ASl'S 








. tss^^"^ •-^' 



The Mission of Madre Santa Clara de Asis and 
HER "Padre Santo" 



t 



|ou may, if you choose, have the railway put you off at 
Santa Clara Station within sight of the Mission, or, if 
you are in San Jose, you may ride to the Mission gates by 
electric car on tracks that follow, for part of the way, the 
beautiful old Alameda, for which every traveler, for nearly a 
century, has had words of praise. In either case, however, 
you will find at Santa Clara very Httle to suggest that famous 
edifice at which Padre Joseph Murguia, its architect and 
builder, labored with his own hands and his neophytes' : laying 
adobes, hewing timbers, and what-not, till the finished result, 
in 1784, was declared by Father Junipero the finest of all the 
Mission churches up to that time. Fated Padre Joseph! 
Though he lived to complete his dear church, it was only to 
be buried in it. Four days before its dedication, he died. 

For the casual visitor to-day, only a memorial cross, boxing 
within it the original, remains to witness to that former 
Franciscan establishment dedicated January 12, 1777, to 
Mother St. Clare, of Assisi, Spiritual Sister of St. Francis and 
Holy Matriarch of his order. In its stead stands a Jesuit col- 
lege with huge buildings of unrelenting modernity, half sur- 
rounding a timber church that gives upon a barren campus 
— all so hopelessly unpicturesque that I was for turning away 
at once, and strolling off into the peaceful ruralities of onion 
fields, lettuce gardens, prune orchards, and alfalfa patches, 
that stretch away from the little Mission town toward the 
bay, visible a few miles off. On second thought, I accepted 
the imvoiced invitation of the open church door; and, enter- 

339 

% 



ing, my ruffled spirits were quieted immediately by the sweet 
peacefulness of that living silence which never fails to impress 
me in the taper-Ht twilight of Catholic churches in the hours 
for private devotion. 

For half an hour I sat in perfect peace in the stillness — 
a stillness so deep that the whispered comments of two visitors 
making the round of the church seemed to wake echoes. 
Departing, they left me alone save for one worshiper, a 
crippled man upon his knees near the door, his careworn face 
earnestly directed toward the far-off glittering altar. In a dim 
corner hard by stood his crutch and cane, and in his hands 
was that which I trust he found to be as a crutch to his halt 
spirit, a rosary from which now and then in the progress of his 
silent prayer he let fall a bead. 

A beautiful paneled pulpit of the pattern frequently seen 
in the old Mission churches, and a startHng band of decora- 
tion upon the walls in festoons of red, green, and blue, after 
the Indian mode, were all that I noted as giving any Mission 
flavor to the interior; though a great crucifix, Hfe-size, sus- 
pended above a side altar, may also be included in the men- 
tion, as it was a famous factor in the missionaries' minister- 
ings. I looked in vain for the roof of beams "labradas y curi- 
osas lo posible" (graven and curious as much as possible), 
which an old record says Padre Murguia put on, but there 
was only an unemotional, flat board ceiling. It would have 
been solacing to me then to know, what I was afterwards told, 
that those ancient rafters of redwood still live in the railing 
before the altar. I think that knowledge would have tempered 
the shock which my artistic sensibilities received at the sight 
of an ice-cooler in the church, labeled "Holy Water," and 
bearing a cross on its lid. The reredos behind in the main 
altar is quite old, too, having been brought from Mexico in 
1802. 

340 



Of the tens of thousands of visitors who annually "do" the 
old Franciscan Missions of CaHfornia, I wonder how many 
give a thought to the personaHty of those self-sacrificing friars 
who laid the foundations of these churches in the wilderness, 
and gathered about them busy little towns, each with its 
thousand or so of christianized Indian inhabitants, in the 
midst of orchards, vineyards, and grain lands all of their 
planting — achieving, with practically no assistance from 
their Government except an outfitting of seeds and church 
utensils, an unsubsidized triumph of poverty. As the first 
Seventy of the Lord were sent out two by two, so these mis- 
sionaries were assigned two to a Mission. One, like Martha 
in the Scriptures, superintended the temporal interests of the 
establishment; the other, like Mary who sat at the Lord's feet, 
had a particular concern in the Mission's spirituaHties. All 
came as volunteers; but having volunteered, they were ex- 
pected to remain in the service for at least ten years, health 
permitting. As a matter of fact, some broke down in body in 
a few years; occasionally one went crazy under the harass- 
ments and the monotony of the endless grind. Yet many 
remained at individual Missions for thrice ten years, or even 
more; for, even though they wished to leave, to do so seems 
not always to have been possible, if we are to believe the 
quatrain by one of the weary Brotherhood:^ — 

"Si fueres k California, 

Encomienda a Dios la \'ida; 
En tu mano esta la entrada. 
Y en la de Dios la salida." 

Or, as we may English it: — 

"If thou 'rt for California, 
Thy life to God commend: 
In thy hand is the starting, 
In that of God the end." 

* Fr. Arroyo de la Cuesta; see Bancroft's California, m, 362. 



^^e CaCifovnia ^abte^ 



At this Mission of Santa Clara, two Catalan friars, Magin 
Catala and Jose Viader worked continuously for thirty-seven 
years, the former's service terminating with his death in 1830, 
Viader's with the enforcement of secularization in 1833. ^^ 
you realize what that means? More than half a lifetime spent 
in a lonely land, for months at a time without sight of other 
white face than that of a fellow missionary, and of the half- 
dozen soldiers who formed the Mission guard, and who, be- 
cause of carnal procUvities, sharpened in the idleness which 
the devil loves, were oftener a care than a solace. For occu- 
pation, day after day, week after week, year after year, there 
was the training of Indians of races notorious for slovenliness 
and stupidity, in some knowledge of the possibilities of life 
here and hereafter; patiently guiding their clumsy hands and 
feet to be serviceable in a score of civilized arts, and labori- 
ously striving to put through their thick skulls some notion 
of the Divine Love and Sacrifice; and there were their con- 
tinual backslidings to be dealt with, their endless childish 
troubles to be heard and helped. No wonder Serra, with a 
grim sort of humor, wrote to Palou, warning against any pos- 
sible thought of a bed of roses in California. "See to it," he 
said, "that [the friars] who are to come are well provided 
with patience and charity, and in that case they will have a 
joyous time and will here become very rich — in hardships." 

In that Padre Catala Santa Clara possessed one of the 
most remarkable of the California Franciscans — a man of 
saintly timber, according to the most approved mediaeval pat- 
tern. Indeed, a movement, not yet dropped, I think, was be- 
gun some years ago looking to his beatification. He delighted 
in austerities to a degree that must have made him a favorite 
child of his seraphic Father Francis. His little windowless, 
fireless cell, where he slept on the floor with an adobe brick 
for a pillow, is still preserved, I believe, inclosed in a wing of 

342 



the Jesuit college, though I did not see it. He was of the type 
that found luxury in self-flagellations with a knotted scourge, 
and in long vigils before the great crucifix in the church, 
where he was commonly beUeved to have "talks with God," 
and on occasions to be caught up in the Divine embrace. 
There, asleep from exhaustion at the altar's foot, he would 
often be found of a morning, when the mayordomo came to 
open the church. He was never seen to smile, and he had the 
monkish fear of the wiles of women, from whom he habitu- 
ally averted his face, even shading it with his cowl when 
necessity called for speech with them. There is a tradition that 
in one respect only he yielded to the weaknesses of the flesh, 
and that was in the wearing of an old straw hat when simi- 
mer suns blazed hottest; but the faithful have cast doubt 
upon the story. 

During most of his incumbency, Catala suffered the tor- 
tures of rheumatism; and unable or unwilling to mount an 
animal, he made his painful journeys about the country hob- 
bling on foot and leaning on the arm of an attendant. As a 
preacher he was credited with a prophetic power so marked as 
to gain for him the sobriquet of "El Prof eta " (The Prophet), 
as well as " El Santo " (The Saint) . He is said to have foretold 
the discovery of gold, the coming of the Americans, the loss of 
California to the Spanish people, the future greatness of San 
Francisco and its destruction by fire and earthquake. His 
biographer, Father Engefliardt, whose little book, "The Holy 
Man of Santa Clara," is rich in incident of this remarkable 
Friar Minor, states that his memory is revered to this day in 
central California, where the devout in time of trouble still 
call for help on "Jesus, Mary, and the soul of Padre Magin"; 
and claim they get it. Equally current is his fame throughout 
southern California, as I am told by Father O'Sullivan of 
San Juan Capistrano. 

343 



^^^ CaCifomia ^cibxtB 



With all his personal asceticisms, Catala did not forget to 
minister to the bodily needs of his spiritual children. He had 
a kindly love for the little folk and saw that they had their 
Christmas plays with a full caste of shepherds and angels and 
a proper devil ; and his benefactions to the needy were abound- 
ing. There was a touch of poetry about his death that is 
worth recording. During his last illness there came an eve- 
ning, when he called to him two faithful Indians, and telling 
them that he should die at dawn, asked them to remain near 
him through the night. "Watch the sky," he bade them, 
"and when the morning star appears, tell me." They did as 
directed, and when they beheld what they watched for, they 
went with the news to his bedside. "Padre, the morning star 
is arisen." "Then, my children," he said, "please call Padre 
Jose to come and pray over me." Fray Viader hastened in, 
and as he recited the prayers for the dying. El Santo's spirit 
passed within the veil. 

At his funeral in the church, the Indians (who, crazed with 
grief, thronged the building) cried out against his burial; and 
pressing about the plain redwood box in which the form of 
El Padre Santo lay, they cut his homespun robe to pieces for 
rehcs. Another habit which was brought to cover him shared 
a like fate. Even his crucifix and sandals were stripped off in 
the frenzied strife for holy memorials, and the military guard 
at last had to be called upon before it was possible to proceed 
with the burial. The visitor interested in tombstones may 
see Fray Magin's in the Santa Clara church. 

As Padre Catala was the Mary of the Santa Clara house- 
hold, so Padre Jose Viader was the Martha. He was a man 
huge of body and large of heart, renowned for the enormous 
crucifix which always hung from the rosary at his girdle, the 
sword of his spiritual warfare. He was a thorough type of 
muscular Christian, as strong as an ox; and the story goes 

344 



that once when set upon by three perfidious Indians, he 
thrashed the whole trio, then forgave them, and so turned 
them into his friends for Ufe. He was immensely interested 
in the all-round prosperity of his Mission, which became 
agriculturally one of the richest in California. Padre Jose, 
I fancy, was one of those who, in the Missions' pahny days, 
made some mild scandal by alleged departures from the 
severities of Franciscan simpHcity, falHng, for instance, into 
the luxury of traveling in carriages. Our old friend, Don 
Alfredo Robinson, throws some Ught on the quality of this 
offense in his graphic picture of the Padre's ride to San Jose 
Mission at the time of the author's visit at Santa Clara about 
1 83 1. The carriage, invented by Viader after a plan of his 
own (being a narrow body himg on a pair of low wheels like 
a cart), was " drawn by a fine black mule, astride of which sat 
a Uttle Indian boy who assisted in guiding the animal in con- 
nection with a more experienced Indian, who, mounted on a 
fiery steed, led the mule with a reata fastened about his neck. 
On each side were two vaqueros with lassos fixed to the axle- 
tree, by which they facilitated the movement of the carriage 
on the road." As the vehicle was springless, one can easily 
imagine that what with lassos, the Indian postilion, and the 
throttled mule, the Padre's ride was more of a penance than 
a pleasure. 

I am not sure whether it was Padre Jose, or a later, who 
was responsible for Santa Clara's famous Indian orchestra, 
resplendent in French uniforms, which had somehow been 
got from some whaler at Monterey or Yerba Buena. De 
Mofras, good Catholic, attended mass during his visit at this 
Mission, and was astounded, at the moment of the elevation 
of the Host, to hear the orchestra in the coro break out with 
the martial strains of La Marseillaise, and later accompany 
the procession with the old French air, Vive Henri Quatre ! 

345 



't^t CaCifotrnta ^cCbxt^ 



After the service the Padre told him that one of his prede- 
cessors had bought for the Mission a Httle organ that had 
come from France, and the neophyte musicians, Hking the 
airs, had of their own accord arranged them for their band. 

The location of Santa Clara on the Camino Real between 
San Francisco and Monterey, combined with the fruitfulness 
of its gardens and herds, caused it to be one of the most fre- 
quently visited of all the Missions. Every traveler who has 
left a record, from Vancouver to the American Lieutenant 
Wilkes, has a good word to say of its hospitalities. The latter 
stopped there in 1841, long after the secularization, and 
though he was far from being an enthusiast as to what he saw 
in California, he makes a note of the deliciousness of the pears 
that were served him from the Mission gardens. In return for 
favors received, it may be noted, he was ungenerous enough 
to beat the resident Padre Mercado three successive games of 
chess, a pastime of which (Wilkes sourly observes) , the lonely 
old man "had more love than knowledge." It was at Santa 
Clara in May, 1784, just after the completion of the great 
church, that Serra, limping his lame way from San Francisco 
to Carmel, spent a few days in spiritual retirement, and made 
a general confession of his devoted life to Palou ; then passed 
on to die at San Carlos as he foresaw he would. 

To Padre Magin we owe the famous Alameda that con- 
nects the Mission of Santa Clara with the city of San Jose. 
His kind heart was grieved at the discomforts endured by 
the white inhabitants of that little pueblo colony in their 
travels to and from the Mission; since, before they had a 
chapel of their own in the town, these colonists were obliged to 
travel the three miles to Santa Clara to hear mass and then 
back again. This in the heat and dust of a summer day en- 
tailed a serious hardship, particularly on women and chil- 
dren; so the Padre had the Indians set out on each side of the 

346 



roadway a line of trees. These before long attained great 
size, and their branches, uniting overhead, formed an arch- 
way to the avenue, which, as La Alameda de Santa Clara, 
became widely famous. The trees seem to have been planted 
about the year 1800, and Father Engelhardt states they were 
poplars, which accords with the name Alameda, this word 
meaning, in strictness, a grove of alamos (poplar trees or 
cottonwoods) , or a walk shaded by them. Whatever they 
were, so beautiful and pleasant a thoroughfare turned Mis- 
sion-going into something of a fiesta for the San Josenos, and 
as time went on the Alameda became on Sundays and feast 
days a popular promenade where the townsfolk displayed 
themselves in their silk-and-satiny best and no doubt in- 
dulged in the scandal-mongering and heartburnings that go 
with fine clothes the world over, even on the way to church. 
Now, whether it was because such frivolous worldliness 
made a natural breeding-ground for spirits of evil; or whether, 
as some maintained, the prince of the devils, finding the peo- 
ple eager for mass-going now that there was a shady way to 
follow, had plotted to hinder them all he could from getting 
within reach of Padre Magin's sermons and holy water, the 
fact remains that the Alameda came to be notorious as a 
haunt of demonios — a regular devil's walk. So insolent did 
the diabolical crew become that they even planned the de- 
struction of San Jose, root and branch, and doubtless would 
have accompHshed it had not El Padre Santo got wind of the 
plot by revelation. There are those still living whose grand- 
mothers used to tell of seeing Padre Magin one hot summer 
day doughtily limp down the Alameda in surpHce and stole 
and recite the exorcisms against evil spirits. There was an 
agonized howling from an invisible legion, a clatter as of 
horns and a blinding cloud of dust; and the Padre hobbled 
triumphantly back to the Mission. That the devilkins were 

347 



^^e CaCifotnia ^<xbx^$ 



routed, horse, foot, and dragoons, none but a heretic could 
doubt; for is it not history that San Jose was not destroyed? 
I sauntered back to San Jose by the Alameda, which is 
still a delightful suburban avenue, though few, if any, of the 
original alamos are now standing; nor any at all of those 
famous Stations of the Cross which Padre Magin had erected 
for a mile along the Alameda that he and his Indians might 
together perform in the open the devotion called the Way of 
the Cross. This they did every Friday and on holy days, 
bearing among them the great crucifix from the church. 
Eucalyptus, box-elders, locusts, and willows have been 
planted to fill the gaps made by irreverent woodchoppers of 
secularization times, and these trees have grown to a size to 
suggest greater age than is really theirs. Beneath their pleas- 
ant shadows, I ploughed through rustling leaves past high 
hedges that half hid old-fashioned estates of pioneer Ameri- 
cans, and felt thankful that the latter-day vandalism, that 
has made wreck forever of so much of old CaHfornia, has 
spared what has been spared of this historic paseo. The 
march of improvement has, indeed, obhterated some of it 
at the San Jose end, for it originally extended to the Httle 
river of Our Lady of Guadalupe, the former boundary be- 
tween the pueblo and the Mission lands. I lingered on the 
bridge, and leaning over the rail looked sentimentally into 
the waters for the sake of a certain four-pound trout, "very 
savory," which Padre Palou lunched upon and made record 
of, in the days when the Santa Clara Valley was the plain of 
San Bernardino, populous with Gentile villages and abound- 
ing in springs of water and groves of giant oaks. 



11 

A Miracle of the Mail 

^^"^E often hear it said that the age of miracles is past. 
*'*^ Perhaps it is; but I fancy that many of those who say 
so would be surprised to find how recently they ceased, even 
here in CaHfornia. As to belief in miracles (modern miracles, 
I mean) , that certainly has not ceased, or at least it had not 
as lately as last spring, when I was talking with Leandro 
Duarte. 

Springtime in the vale of Santa Clara is an experience to 
remember when succeeding springs come round and find you 
in other surroundings. I think some enterprising air-ship 
tourist concern of the future will make a huge hit by conduct- 
ing parties on aero trips over those seas of blossom, White 
Sea of apricot and prune, Pink Sea of peach and almond, 
Quite Inexpressible Sea of apple and quince, fanned with 
gales compared with which those of the Spice Islands are 
gross and undesirable. Almost as good as the aero, perhaps, 
is a sunny corner of an orchard wall, adobe by preference, 
such as that where Leandro found me one morning with a 
book upside down and my eyes half shut, wondering whether 
I was not in an Arabian Nights garden, a Caliph instead of a 
CaHfornian. 

Sunny corners of adobe walls are a weakness of Leandro, 
too, so he promptly came and sat by me. When the preHm- 
inary cigarette was rolled and lighted he waved his hand. 
"Mira, senor," he said, "que vista tan hermosa!" (Look, 
what a beautiful sight!) 

''Mir a, indeed," I repHed, my mind playing with the ety- 
mology of the word, "for it is truly a miracle." 

349 



€^t CaCifovnia i^<xbxt$ 



Leandro nodded. "A miracle, yes, that is it; and do you 
know, seiior, there have been many miracles here, different 
from this?" 

*'I don't understand," I said. "What kind of miracles, 
and where? " 

"Here, seiior," he replied. "There used to be an orchard 
here in the old days, that belonged to the Mission at Santa 
Clara, and this is a bit of the wall where we are sitting." 

"That is very interesting," I rejoined, "but what miracles 
did you mean? " 

"Oh, there were many," he said. "Have you ever heard 
of Padre Magin, seiior, who was priest here for so many 
years?" 

"Yes, I have read of him," I returned. "What do you 
know about him? " 

"He was a wonderful man, seiior, muy santo, and could 
make miracles. I have heard my father tell them, but I have 
forgotten." 

"Can't you remember any of them?" I asked. "I should 
like exceedingly to hear about a miracle." 

"There is one, seiior," he answered, "and I know it is true, 
for my father and many people knew of it. It was not here, 
this miracle, though, but farther south, where it happened. 
I will tell you. 

"In the old times, seiior, when the Mexicans had the coun- 
try, they did many things differently from how it is now. One 
thing was that the soldiers carried the mail, on horseback. 
There was not much to carry, and they sent it once in every 
two weeks. A soldier would ride from San Luis Obispo to 
Soledad, and one from Monterey to Soledad, and they would 
exchange the packages of mail and ride back. It was like that 
all the way from San Diego to San Francisco, I have heard. 

"There was a soldier at the Soledad Mission, Silvestre 

350 



Barron was his name, and one day it was his turn to take the 
mail to Monterey. It was a long ride, and he had to start at 
four o'clock in the morning, before it was light. The mail was 
done up in a little packet, ready to be fastened to his waist 
with a leather strap. That was how they always carried it, for 
safety. When Silvestre was ready to start, he had to go again 
into the house, to get money to buy shoes for his wife at Mon- 
terey; so he put the package down on the saddle and dropped 
the reins on the horse's neck, all loose, while he went in. When 
he came out — it was only a minute, not more, that he was 
in the house — he could not see the horse. He listened, but 
could not hear anything, either, and it was dark. Then he 
got a lantern and called his wife, and they searched all about, 
but the horse was gone. Then they looked for the packet of 
mail, on the ground, where it would fall, but they could not 
see it anj^where. That was worse than losing the horse, be- 
cause the rule was that if any one lost the mail he had to be 
shot. It was a hard rule, but I have heard that the mail is as 
if the letters belonged to the Government, whoever had sent 
them, like when I write to my brother at San Jose. I do not 
understand why it should be like that, but they say it is so. 
"Silvestre's wife was terribly frightened, because she knew 
about the rule. She was a good woman, and went always to 
church at the Mission. They did not know what to do, so 
they waited till it was light and then searched again, but they 
could not find the mail or the horse. Silvestre thought some 
one had stolen them, because the package would have fallen 
down before the horse got far away, unless some one had 
taken it. Then Silvestre's wife said he must run away, or 
they would surely shoot him, so she gave him some food and 
he went away to the mountains to hide. There was no other 
horse that he could have, so he went on foot. He told another 
soldier, who was a good friend, about losing the mail, and 

351 



€^t CaCifotnia ^Cibxt0 



asked him to look out for the horse if it came back; and he 
told him he was running away, but not to tell any one. 

"He went as fast as he could all day, till he got to the moun- 
tains. There are high mountains there at the west of the val- 
ley, but it is many miles, and it was nearly night when he got 
there. In those times there were many bears and other wild 
things in the mountains, and Silvestre heard them in the dark, 
and was frightened ; but he thought it would be better to die 
that way than to be shot. So he went on, though it was dark 
and very rough, for he wanted to get as far as he could that 
day. When he had gone a long way, and was getting near the 
top of the mountains, he felt too tired to climb any more, and 
he sat down. It was in a very rough place, all big rocks and 
brush and some trees. There was one high rock that was very 
big, like a house, and kept the wind off, so he sat down with 
his back against the rock and went to sleep. 

"He had only slept a little when he woke up and heard a 
noise that came from the other side of the big rock. At first 
he thought it was a bear coming, and tried to think how he 
could get away; but when he heard the noise again it sounded 
different, like a rattle, or like the noise a horse makes when he 
chews at his bit. He crept round to where he could see, and, 
senor, it was his horse. Was it not wonderful for it to be 
there? But wait, seiior; there was a more wonderful thing 
than that. He went to the horse, and then he saw the packet 
of letters, yes, on the saddle just where he had put it. And 
not tied, seiior, that is the great wonder that no one can 
understand. That is why it is a miracle, because the bundle 
was not fastened at all, and it had stayed there all that time, 
in the rough mountains, and with brush to push it off. It 
could not be anything except a fine miracle that would do 
anything like that, could it, senor? 

"Well, that was what Silvestre thought, too. My father 

352 



said that he was once in those mountains, and they are like 
I tell you, very steep and rough. It was hard for Silvestre 
even to get the horse down again to the valley. When he got 
down, he kept out of sight till it was night again, for fear some 
one would see him there when he ought to be at Monterey 
with the mail. When it was nearly dark he got on the horse 
and went home. 

*' His wife was full of joy. She listened to what he had done, 
and then she said that after he had gone away she had felt 
very bad, because she thought he could never come back. 
There were children, as well, so it would be much sorrow for 
them, too. So she went to the Mission to pray to the saints 
to help her to find the mail. While she was praying in the 
church she thought of Padre Magin, the one I talked about 
just now. He had not been dead many years then, and every- 
body knew about him, that he was a saint. People used to 
say, while he was alive, that he prayed all night and did not 
sleep at all; and that he could be in two places, and see what 
one did if it was wrong; and often when people lost things he 
told them where they could find them. There were many 
people who had had miracles after he was dead, too, by pray- 
ing to him to help them. So when Silvestre's wife remem- 
bered that, she prayed to him, and promised to have a holy 
mass said if he would help them to find the mail. 

"And you see, he did it, senor, so that shows it was true, 
what people said about his being a saint. My father said that 
once he was very sick, nearly dead, and my mother sent to a 
neighbor who had a piece of the robe that Padre Magin was 
wearing when he died. She got it and put it on the place where 
the sickness was, and prayed to Padre Magin, and my father 
got well. It must be fine to be a saint and help people like 
that. I suppose," said Leandro, looking thoughtfully at me 
as he rolled his fourth cigarette, "that he must have asked 

353 



^^t CaCifovnia ^abveif 

the good God to let him come and show Silvestre the way to 
where the horse was. Do you think, senor, the packet stayed 
on the saddle all the time the horse was going up the moun- 
tain, or do you think the saint just put it there when Silvestre 
found it? I should like to know about that." 



SAN JOSE 







1 







/ 



Mission San Jos:^; the Padre's Little Game at 
Tortillas, and Some Remarks about Flogging 

^fr^'HE first white man's town to be formally laid out in Cali- 
^^ fornia was San Jose, and it is a pretty little city, quite 
worth a visit; but do not go there with the expectation of see- 
ing the Mission San Jose, for it is not there and never was. It 
is a good enough place to start from, however, for the Mis- 
sion, embarking upon a local train that will deposit you four- 
teen miles distant at Irvington, a pleasant country town in 
the rich fruit-growing region of the eastern shore of San 
Francisco Bay. There you may take a stage for the two or 
three miles to the village of Mission San Jose. Better, though, 
if you are one who has joy of his trotters, to walk those few 
short miles through a billowy land of vineyards and orchards 
of peaches, pears, and olives. 

The Mission I found frankly decadent, there being left of 
it only the wreck of one adobe building, with a shingle roof 
and a crumbling corridor upheld by posts of wood. In the 
presence of such desolation, there was a pathos in the thought 
of that June day in 1797, when in all hopefulness of a glorious 
future the Mission was solemnly dedicated in a rustic chapel 
piled high with wild flowers as "La Mision del Gloriosisimo 
Patriarca Seiior San Jose" — and confided to the especial 
care of that most glorious Patriarch who was the patron of all 
the Franciscan missionary work in California. But though 
the Franciscans and their works at Mission San Jose are now 
mostly dust, the activities of the church are by no means 
suspended there. Close to the street, on the Mission land, 

357 



€^t Cafifotnia ^abxt& 

are a modem, steepled church and a priest's house, while in 
the rear, across the garden close, stands a convent of Domini- 
can Sisters, who conduct there a school. The latter building 
is as ugly a three-story affair of brick as one often sees, with 
a mansard roof, and made me wonder afresh what misjoining 
demon of bad taste it is that has inspired the architectural 
monstrosities of almost all the latter-day additions to the 
fine old Franciscan Mission buildings. That older architec- 
ture was distinctive, in keeping with the natural environment, 
and beautiful in itself. It seems as though its perpetuation 
would be more worth while as an expression of praise to God 
than the discordant sort of thing that has so often been 
erected for the carrying-on of the gospel work begun by the 
Franciscans. 

A cross-surmounted gateway into the grounds stood in- 
vitingly open, but a sign on the post unequivocally declared 
"No Admittance Except on Business." While I stood de- 
bating whether to obey the inhospitable sign — for I had no 
color of business — or the hospitable open gate, a priest with 
an honest Irish face beneath a flapping hat came by and 
wished me good-morning. To him I confided my dilemma. 

" Why, sure, man, go in," he said heartily; "and if you want 
inside the old building, the Sisters beyond will give you the 
key." 

And now occurred a noteworthy happening of my Mission 
pilgriming. No one had told me of this Mission's lovely gar- 
dens, which the Sisters of St. Dominick have restored to 
doubtless all their old-time fertility, if not their old-time ex- 
tent. As I sauntered up the roadway leading to the hideous 
convent building which glowered like an ogre from a bower of 
foliage, I was suddenly aware of being in the midst of a sweet 
stillness and a unique beauty. All about were old-fashioned 
flowers blowing perfume across my path and ducking their 

358 



pretty heads at me as the breeze passed over them — roses, 
petunias, stockgillies, chrysanthemums, and red, red gera- 
niums. Fruit trees, too, were there — oranges, lemons, figs, 
apricots, ahnonds; dotted about here and there were pabns; 
but most enchanting of all the trees were the oHves, of which 
there was a double row lining a long walk, extending to a 
small shaded chapel that closed the vista ; while on each side 
of the shadow-dappled walk, and set at regular intervals in 
the shade of the olives, were little wooden shrines, each lov- 
ingly clasped by a twining rose. Farther on I could see there 
were vegetable patches, and Sisters in rustic attire were bent 
double at work, hoeing and weeding, and one I saw picking 
lemons. The old adobe Mission building and the new church, 
with its outbuildings embowered in trees, hid this pleasant 
garden from the street; at the back the hills rose abruptly 
in primitive wildness; so, front and rear, was the world shut 
completely out, and had it not been for that unspeakable 
mansard roof and the feminine presences, I might have fan- 
cied myself set back a century, and stout old Padre Narciso 
Duran coming down the olive walk to greet me, and inviting 
me to listen to his Indians at their music. 

As it was, no one met me and I rang the doorbell at the 
convent. A placid-faced old Sister, to whom I expressed my 
desire to see inside the Mission, invited me into the parlor — 
just the cheerless, high-vaulted sort of room that goes with 
a mansard roof — while she went for the key. Presently 
another Sister appeared and, explaining apologetically that 
the key was at a neighboring house and must be sent for, she 
sat down and hospitably entertained me. 

"You like the garden?" she smiled. "Yes, it is beautiful; 
but more so in the spring than now.'^The olives, many of them, 
are old, old trees planted by the Fathers, and they still bear. 
Every year we make oil from them. The avenue of olive trees 

359 



€^^ CaCifovnia ^abte^ 

you came along, where the rose-entwined shrines are, is dedi- 
cated to the Blessed Virgin, Queen of the Most Holy Rosary. 
The shrines correspond in number to the mysteries of the 
rosary, and contain pictures of these mysteries. The Sisters 
walk there at their devotions. At the end of the walk, that 
little chapel you saw contains a picture of 'Our Lady of 
Pompeii,' a famous representation of the Blessed Virgin as 
Queen of the Most Holy Rosary." 

Some society, she told me, — the Native Sons and Daugh- 
ters of the Golden West, perhaps, — had raised funds to re- 
pair soon and make presentable that part of the old Mission 
which still remains; and when I expressed my pleasure as a 
Protestant in seeing such historic buildings preserved, she 
acquiesced, adding with a gentle loyalty to her own creed 
that I liked, "Yet not as dead monuments, but as living in- 
struments for the extension of the Faith." Which, indeed, 
seems to be the design of the Church respecting them. 

When the key came, it was by the hands of a boy to whom 
I was turned over for guidance through the Mission. He per- 
formed his duties in normal boy fashion with noticeably less 
interest in expounding the history of what he showed (of 
which, indeed, he was very ignorant) than in the chances of 
flushing a bat or an owl in the cobwebby twilight of the musty 
old rooms. The edifice that stands is of the convento part of 
the Mission. At the time of my visit, it was all ruinous and 
as barren of noteworthiness as might be expected of a build- 
ing which, after the secularization, had done duty as a wine 
cellar and been roundly shaken by earthquakes. Neverthe- 
less, I got a certain dreamy interest out of it in recalling that 
it was probably in one of the very rooms we passed through 
that an incident occurred which so entertained Captain 
Beechey on the occasion of visiting the Mission in 1826, that 
he made note of it in his diary, among graver matters. 

360 



Every day at dinner, it seems, after the olla was removed, 
one of the Padres (and it sounds like Padre Narciso) had a 
pile of Indian pancakes brought in. Then, fixing his eyes on 
one of the little Indian boys, of whom several stood about the 
table, the muchacho immediately opened wide his mouth; 
whereupon the Padre would roll up a cake and with some 
jocular remark about the urchin's appetite or the size of his 
mouth, would toss the tortilla at him. This the boy would 
catch in his teeth, and devour hastily to be the sooner ready 
for another, as well as to please the Padre; for the latter en- 
joyed the sport in proportion to the rapid transit of the cake. 
This singular game at tortillas, Beechey states, was the Father's 
only relaxation from the daily routine of duty. 

Not the least enjoyable part of a visit of Mission San Jose 
is a stroll about the quiet, flowery little village with its marked 
foreign flavor, which I was given to understand is largely 
Portuguese. Indeed, the young guide at the Mission had re- 
marked ingenuously, "Once a Portuguee owned all one side 
of the town, but a bank got it somehow." And by all means, 
top off with a walk to Mission Peak, the hill which rises im- 
mediately back of the Dominican convent. There is a lovely 
sylvan trail that starts in close to the Mission where a small 
stream issues cress-covered from the willows; and by easy 
stages you rise out of a skirting of oaks and laurels until you 
stand upon the bald summit of the Peak. It is no great alti- 
tude, but enough in that flattish region to enable you to get 
a delightful outlook over wide areas of cultivation and the 
great Bay of San Francisco, with its sloughs and tree-fringed 
tributaries, and smoke-stacks of industry puflSiig up here and 
there along the marge of it, from city San Jose to the Golden 
Gate. In Mission days cattle by the tens of thousands fed 
upon the bordering plains. These belonged to the Missions 
of San Jose and Santa Clara, and were slaughtered mainly 

361 



€i^t CaCifomia ^cCtu$ 



for their hides and tallow. The shipping of these hides was a 
picturesque sight. The Indians in long files, each carrying a 
folded skin on his head, wound through the wild mustard to 
the embarcadero, where the hides were dumped into Ughters 
for the port of San Francisco, there to be transferred to such 
hide droghers as Dana's famous Pilgrim. 

That Captain Beechey aforesaid seems to have enjoyed his 
visit at our Mission San Jose, and the picture he has left of 
the establishment in its heyday is valuable as a first-hand 
account, by a fair-minded observer of a regime that is gone 
forever. Two incidents that he records are particularly illu- 
minating. One was the return of a military expedition sent 
to chastise certain Gentiles in the hills. These had murdered 
a number of Christian Indians who had been on a proselytiz- 
ing tour for Mission recruits. The soldiers sent to avenge 
their death had done their task well, from the military stand- 
point — burning and desolating the village of the pagans and 
bringing into the Mission forty captives, women and children. 
The prisoners were at once taken in hand for conversion. 
Beechey was an eyewitness one morning when this class was 
up for tuition. Clothed in blankets, the Indians were ar- 
ranged in a row before a blind Indian who understood their 
dialect, and who was assisted by an alcalde to keep order. 
Their tutor began by desiring them to kneel, informing them 
that he was going to teach them the names of the persons 
composing the Trinity, and that they were to repeat in Span- 
ish what he dictated. Then he began — *' Santisima Trinidad : 
Dios, Jesu Cristo, Espiritu Santo" — pausing between each 
name to listen if the Indians, who had never spoken Spanish 
before, pronounced the words anywhere near the mark. After 
they had repeated these names satisfactorily, their blind 
tutor announced, "Santos," and recapitulated the names of 
a number of saints. These similarly repeated, the morning's 

362 



lesson was finished. The Englishman could not see that the 
dusky scholars were particularly interested in what was going 
forward with them, and he observed to the Padre that he 
thought the teachers had an arduous task; but the Father 
said, "Oh, no, there is no difficulty. The Indians are ac- 
customed to change their gods and their conversion is in a 
great measure habitual to them." But then Padre Duran was 
rather notorious for hurrying a change of heart. 

The captain's accoimt of the celebration of high mass in 
the Mission church a few days later, on a saint's day, is also 
interesting, I think. There was a pretty procession of young 
Indian girls in scarlet petticoats and white bodies, and when 
the bells ceased tolling, the huts of the neophyte village were 
searched for possible truants by alguazils armed with long- 
lashed whips which they used "with tolerable freedom " when 
any shirkers were found. The church was crowded. The 
alguazils with whips and goads stood in the aisle that sepa- 
rated the congregation into two parts, and kept all in a kneel- 
ing position and otherwise orderly, the goads being partic- 
ularly handy for this, "as they would reach a long way and 
inflict a sharp puncture without making any noise." 

Apropos of the discipline by whipping, of which much has 
been made by the antagonists of the Padres, it should be 
borne in mind that a century ago Solomon's precept about the 
rod was still a generally accepted tenet of right education, 
and in Spanish California it was no very unusual thing for 
grown white men to be spanked by their offended fathers. 
Doubtless, now and then, some zealous Padre (believing that, 
if a little is good, more is better) overdid the matter; but in a 
general way one should not think hardly of the missionaries 
for resorting to the practice with their misbehaving red chil- 
dren (who, indeed, never grew up), for it was meant as a cor- 
rective. "But, Padre, it hurts," complained one Nazario, 

363 



€^t CaCifotnta ^cCbttB 



when Fray Magin, saint though he was, prescribed a whip- 
ping for some moral infirmity. "Of course it does, mijo, but 
the pains of hell hurt worse," returned the Padre, having an 
eye to Nazario's future.^ 

The Indians usually took their birching philosophically, 
doubtless being quite aware of their shortcomings, and would 
then go off pleasantly enough about their business. Old Jo- 
safat, living as late as 1847, and who had been cook at San 
Antonio, used to tell that, when Padre Sancho had an indi- 
gestion, Josafat would be made to pay for it with six or eight 
lashes; which may or may not have been evenhanded justice; 
but Josafat seems to have appreciated the grim logic of it 
and not to have protested. There was a different case at San 
Jose, when a certain Cosumne Indian, who had been recently 
baptized and had received the shirt and blanket of neophy- 
tism, committed some breach of good order that entailed 
a whipping. This angered the man and he threw the blanket 
and shirt back at the Father, crying, in true Fenimore Cooper 
style, "Padre, take back your Christianity. I want none of 
it. I go back a pagan to my people! " 

For over sixty years the missionaries "for the conquest" 
in California had been recruited from the Franciscan College 
of San Fernando in the City of Mexico. These Brothers were 
called, on this account, Fernandinos, and were almost with- 
out exception Spaniards by birth. As time went on, that 
establishment became unable to supply friars to replace the 
vacancies occurring in the province by death and departure; 
and, in 1833, ten missionaries of a new sort were sent up from 

^ "We have begotten the neophytes for Christianity," writes one of the 
Fathers, "by means of our labor for them. . . . We therefore use the authority 
which Ahnighty God concedes to parents for the education of their children, 
now exhorting, now rebuking, now also chastising when necessity demands." 
The Spanish law took the same view of the matter and prescribed a maximum 
of lashes, and other details. 

364 



Mexico — Franciscans still, but of another college — that 
of Our Lady of Guadalupe at Zacatecas. These Zacatecans 
were not Spaniards but Mexicans; most of them were inferior 
both in intellect and character to the Femandinos; and their 
habits were rather free compared with those of the more 
austere old Spaniards. As the two sorts did not fraternize 
well, they decided to keep apart, the newcomers taking the 
northern Missions and the Femandinos the southern. The 
successor of Padre Duran at San Jose was one of these Zacate- 
cans — the flower of them all — Padre Jose Maria de Jesus 
Gonzalez Rubio. His term there was from 1833 to 1842, and 
that he was able to save something for his Mission from the 
wreck of secularization is testified by De Mofras. The latter, 
in 1 84 1, found this active young Mexican still with a flock of 
four hundred well-conditioned neophytes about him — the 
alcaldes cutting quite a dash in blue cloak, jacket, and panta- 
loons, red waistcoat and sash, black silk cravat, and great 
felt sombrero. Gonzalez, indeed, seems to have been the equal 
of an old Fernandino in abiUty, zeal, and right Hving, and his 
neophytes called him "El Santo." Later he became presi- 
dent of the College of Franciscans at Santa Barbara, where he 
died in 1875, the last of the old line of Franciscan missionaries 
in CaKfomia. His successor at San Jose — Padre Jose Maria 
Real — was of quite another kidney. He was hail-fellow- 
well-met with everybody, and liked nothing better than to 
join a moonlight party of roistering blades to lasso bears or 
hunt deer. He had a pretty taste in horseflesh and rode 
superbly, a scarlet /aja about his waist beneath his gray gown. 
When more sedate priests would rebuke him for his loose ways, 
he would laugh and say debonairly, "I am only a Mexican 
Franciscan, you know, and I was brought up in the saddle." 
So Guadalupe Vallejo tells us. 



36s 



^^e CaCifotnia ^aW^ 
II 

The Music of the Missions 

HT<i nothing were the early Padres of California more re- 
^ markable, and more admirable, than in the many-sided- 
ness of their efforts for their Indian charges. No doubt the 
friars were chosen partly with this "handy man" quahfica- 
tion in view, and it is certainly to this that is due very greatly 
the astonishing and quick success that the Missions attained. 
The Franciscan missionary must be priest, agriculturist, ex- 
plorer, engineer, artist, physician, architect, artisan, and 
trader, all in one. The modern "Institutional Church" idea 
is not exactly modern, after all. 

It was certain that among the agencies for civilizing the 
Cahfornia natives, music should take a foremost place. The 
Fathers were, almost without exception, men of fine culture, 
and music having been a main feature in their previous mon- 
astic life, many of them, no doubt, looked to the same re- 
freshing source for solace and recreation in their solitary field 
of labor, finding in it a charm to soothe not only the savage 
breast, but that of the savage's hard-worked and oft-discour- 
aged Mentor as well. 

We can hardly suppose, considering the circiunstances, that 
the results were of a high order artistically. The California 
Indian stood very low in the aboriginal scale, far lower, in 
fact, than the Indians of the eastern part of the continent at 
the coming of the whites. But — though this may seem a 
fanciful idea — perhaps the characteristics of the Cahfornia 
native, his sadness, his half-conscious abasement, even his 
lethargy, are the very traits that would make him susceptible 
to music of the solemn Gregorian mode; just as, to carry it 

366 



further, the same traits may well have prepared him to listen 
with sympathy and comprehension to the story of a Cruci- 
fixion, a Way of Tears and Blood, of Humility and Betrayal, 
with Hope all set upon another life than this. The reader who 
has once heard the ^singing of our Indians will know what I 
mean. To me there is nothing more moving, more deeply 
pathetic, in the range of sound, than that sonorous, mournful 
Indian voice, whether heard in some majestic choral of the 
Church, or as, brooding over guitar or mandolin, the dusky 
singer murmurs some soft Spanish love-song: a strange, high 
tenor that is like — I know not what; yes, like love itself, 
but a joyless, Indian love. Poor Reynaldo! after twenty 
years I can see and hear you yet, singing to your mandolin 
in the dim corner of the old adobe cottage in Sonora town. 

But this is by the way. In spite of many drawbacks the 
Fathers succeeded, at nearly all if not all the Missions, in 
training acceptable choirs, both vocal and instrumental. A 
main difficulty, at this distance from civilization (which to 
them meant Mexico City), was that of providing instru- 
ments. Such as they had were mostly, no doubt, of native 
manufacture; but what a triumph of patience and ingenuity 
does the fact represent, when one thinks of what California 
was a hundred years ago : Farthest Africa to-day is hardly an 
unfair comparison. Yet, cultivated travelers have spoken with 
admiration of the music they heard proceed from those rude 
Indian instruments and instrumentalists; and it may, indeed, 
be taken as a fair index of the success of the Mission plan in 
general that this best, gentlest of the Muses should have thus 
early found a home among the unhopeful race who had come 
under the Fathers' influence. We may even take it as a token 
(if that pleases our local patriotism) of the future leadership 
of California in musical affairs. But however the future may 
be, I think that St. Francis himself, "jongleur of the Lord," 

367 



^§e Cafifotnia ^obxtB 



and lover of music as of all sweet and guileless things, must 
have had much joy of those somewhat crude flutings and 
fiddlings and hornings, where he (as we may hope) had 
spiritual cognizance of them. 

The one of the Missions that seems to have been preeminent 
in things musical was San Jose. Here ruled, as has been said. 
Fray Narciso Duran, a most harmonious friar, whose joy and 
pride was an orchestra of no less than thirty performers, with 
violins, flutes, trumpets, and drums; a veritable trixmiph, 
Padre Narciso. One may judge of his musical caliber by the 
fact recorded of him that he would even stop the service of the 
church rather than suffer to pass without correction some dis- 
cord that offended his soul. He was composer, moreover, as 
well as conductor. A Catalan by birth, to him is credited the 
music of a mass known as La Misa Catalana. This com- 
position, once much sung at the Missions, had faded almost 
into a tradition when, a month or two ago. Father O'SuUivan, 
the resident priest of San Juan Capistrano, had the good for- 
tune to xmearth two complete scores of the music, which had 
lain, unsuspected, for many a year in the possession of one 
of his parishioners. 

It is a pleasant picture that Robinson gives of Padre Duran . 
"A venerable old man . . . generous, benevolent. . . , The 
Indians not only revered him as their spiritual father and 
friend, but seemed almost to adore him. ... So acute was 
the ear of the priest that he would detect a wrong note in- 
stantly, and chide the erring performer. I have often seen the 
old gentleman, bareheaded, in the large square of the Mission, 
beating time against one of the pillars of the corridor, whilst 
his music was in rehearsal." Here is another subject for some 
California artist — the quaint, shock-headed crew, as far from 
uniform, I suspect, in time and tone as in coats and breeches, 
all eyes intent on the baton of the perspiring conductor as he 

368 



hopefully thumps away, cheering on the dusky sons of Or- 
pheus. Such was the germ, indeed, such was, CaHfornia's 
first Symphony Orchestra. And talk about local color! 

Another of the Padres who was musically (as well as other- 
wise) notable was Fray Esteban Tapis, whom we trace at 
simdry of the Missions, and finally occupying the position of 
president of the missionaries, from 1803 to 181 2. It is to his 
painstaking hand that the Missions owed many of their finely 
written scores of the Alabado, the Antiphonale, and the other 
musical offices of the Church. Quaint-looking scores they are, 
to our eyes, the notes written as squares or diamonds, and on 
a stave sometimes of four or five and sometimes of six hnes. 
The music being in general Gregorian, it was of course sung 
in unison; but there was not a Httle also of four-part choral 
singing. It is interesting to see that in such cases, in order to 
guide the Indian choristers through the dangerous maze, the 
notes of each part were written in a different color, the air 
perhaps in yellow, and the other parts in red, white, and black, 
respectively. At such accomplishments as this, of which a 
little example is shown below, it seems that Fray Esteban was 
specially proficient. 

. : J=l « ^ ^ 



tit 



=i 



EPI 



<>*■•' „a' 



a 



San - to Dios San - to Fuer - te San - to In - mor - tal 



g 



_□_ 



'g ><:^ |~ 



=E- 



Li - bra 



Se 



de 



to 



do mal. 



It is quite natural that such a good democrat as Fray 
Florencio Ibanez, of Soledad, should be found to shine in the 
most sociable of the arts. A man of temper as well as of tem- 
perament. Fray Florencio was a real acquisition to California, 

369 



notwithstanding the little cloud under which he came from 
Mexico, where his muscular arm had floored some military 
jackanapes who had exceeded the limits of his forbearance. 
In California also, to the high and haughty Fray Florencio 
was always a humbling experience, but the lowly Indian 
found him ever the best of protectors and friends. It was he 
who composed for the delight and instruction of his people 
what was the most popular of those pastorelas, or simple reli- 
gious plays, of which an acco\mt has been given in a previous 
chapter; and I will warrant that in Mission musical circles, 
Soledad stood high in the reign of Padre Florencio; for what 
Indian would not sing and play his best to please a priest who 
openly preached that in natural rights the Indian was the 
equal of the Spaniard, "a man for a' that"; and made good 
the doctrine day by day in practical terms of meat and drink? 
For the King's officer who stopped at Soledad ate the same 
Spartan fare as priest and neophyte, or went empty on his 
way: and clay of Indian got the same reverence as clay of 
comandante from Fray Florencio when funeral or burial were 
to be done. A fine Franciscan, Fray Florencio; one might say, 
a fine Christian, too. 

Readers of "Ramona" (and that should be everybody) 
will remember the description of Father Salvierderra, rising 
at break of day, throwing open his window and beginning the 
sunrise hymn, soon joined by all within hearing. That is no 
touch of fancy or sentiment. It was an old custom in Cali- 
fornia — probably throughout Spain and Mexico as well — 
and one now not long extinct among Spanish Californians, 
that all in the household, led by its head or some one acting 
for him or her, should greet the new morning on awaking by 
the singing of a hymn. A beautiful action, surely : one of those 
gracious small things that give to the life and manners of Latin 
races a spontaneity, a touch of charm, that we of the Northern 

370 



anb t^txx Q[Ut00ion0 



blood recognize as excellent, though we neither could nor 
would — nor perhaps should — emulate. The favorite of all 
hjmms for this purpose, and one that was evidently composed 
for these occasions, was what was known as El Cdntico del 
Alba (the Canticle of the Dawn), a hymn addressed to the 
Virgin. I learn that it became among the Mission Indians of 
the old days a regular morning prayer, being sung in the huts 
at daybreak. Even when camping or traveling it was sung 
in the morning, the father and mother singing the hymn 
verse by verse, and the children repeating the first stanza 
after each verse, in the manner of a refrain. 

I wish I could give the music here with its authentic harmo- 
nies (if it was originally so composed, as seems Ukely from the 
structure of the air) ; but diligent search has failed to produce 
a record of the music so written, either printed or in manu- 
script, and it may be that the harmonies were supplied at the 
taste of the singer. 

EL CANTICO DEL ALBA 





rv _ 








t 








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-, ^ \)>^ 


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ri 


fs 


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rs -1 


fr A^ 






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1 








\>\) 


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1 






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Ya vie - ne el Al - ba Ray - an - do el di 



^; 



g^p^ 



Di 



ga 



1. Ya viene el alba, 

Rayando el dia; 
Digamos todos 
Ave Maria. 

2. Nacio Maria 

Para consuelo 
De pecadores, 
Y luz del cielo. 



to 



dos 



A 



Ma 



1. Now comes the dawn, 

Brightening to the day. 
Hail, Mary, hail, 
Let us all say. 

2. Bom was Mary 

For Heaven's light 
And help of sinners 
In their plight. 



371 



^§e CaCtfovnia ^Oibxts 



3. Digamos todos 

Con eficacia 
Nacio Maria 
Llena de gracia. 

4. Fue sola hermosa, 

Sola Maria, 
La que acompana 
La Ixiz del dia. 

5. Bella grandeza 

No pudo ver 
La sierpe fiera 
Del Lucifer. 

6. La sierpe fiera 

Llora sus penas. 
Maria le pone 
Fuertes cadenas. 

7. Respondan todos 

Con alegria, 
Viva Jesus, 
Viva Maria, 

8. Viva Jose, 

Viva Maria, 
Tambien que viva 
La luz del dia. 

9. Viene la aurora 

Con alta luz: 

Digamos todos 

Amen, Jesus. 



3. Let us all sing: 

Help of our race 
Was Mary bom, 
And full of grace. 

4. Alone in beauty, 

Unequaled one, 

Mary, thou comest 

Fair as the sim. 

5. The ravening serpent, 

Lucifer, 
Quailed before 
The beauty of her. 

6. The ravening serpent 

Cowers in pain. 
Mary puts on him 
Fetters of chain. 

7. Let all respond 

In blithest accord, 
Hail, Mary, hail, 
Hail, Jesus, Lord. 

8. And Joseph, hail, 

And Mary, hail, 
And hail the Hght 
That shall not fail. 

9. Comes morning light. 

Brightening to the day. 
Amen, Jesus, 
Let us all say. 






Scattered here and there about California there are still a 
handful of old, very old, Indians whose wonderful faculty of 
memory has preserved some few of the hymns, chants, and 
chorals, that were most regularly used in the Mission serv- 
ices. One such is old Fernando Cardenas, commonly known 
as Fernandito (little Fernando), of whom mention has been 

372 



made in 'the chapter on Mission Santa Ines. From his lips 
Father Alexander Buckler, priest of that Mission and model 
of industry, last year recorded by the phonograph some half- 
dozen of these. To Father Buckler I am indebted, thus, for 
the Spanish words of the foregoing Cdntico del Alba, as also 
for the Spanish words and the music of the Alabado, or Song 
of Praise, a hymn which was ever on the lips of priest and 
neophyte, not alone at the services in the Missions, but when 
out on the frequent explorations and visitations, when it 
seems to have been often sung when breaking camp before 
the day's march began. Even as an ordinary greeting it is 
reported to have been sometimes used — said, not sung, one 
must suppose — a statement upon which further light would 
be welcome in view of there being four verses. I give it as it 
came from the lips of eighty-year-old Femandito. 

ALABADO 



■/J J J J J 



-^— s^ 



^ 



-^-* 



t^f-t^ 



-z^ 



U-U- 



A-la-ba-do y en-sal-za-do Se-a el Di - vi - no Sa - cra-men-to 



^^S 



P3^^a 



¥ ¥ ^ 



itz^zi 



En qui -en Di-os o - cul - to a-sis-te DelasAl-masel . . sus-ten-to. 

I. Alabado y ensalzado i. Praised and exalted 

Sea el Divino Sacramento, Be the Divine Sacrament, 

En quien Dios ocidto asiste Wherein the hidden Lord abides, 

De las ahnas el sustento. Of souls the sustenance. 



2. Y la limpia Concepci6n 2. And [praised bel the pure con- 

ception 
De la Reyna de los Cielos, Of the Queen of the Heavens 

Que quedando Virgen pura, Who, Virgin immaculate, 

Es Madre del Verbo Etemo. Is Mother of the Eternal Word. 

373 



^§e Cafifotnia ^Oibtt& 



3, Y el bendito San Jose, 3. And the blessed Saint Joseph, 

Electo por Dios inmenso Chosen by God the Almighty 

Para padre estimativo For the reputed father 

De Su Hijo el Divino Verbo. Of His Son, the Divine Word. 

4. Esto es por todos los siglos 4. This is for all ages 

Y de los siglos. Amen. And for ever. Amen. 

Amen, Jesus y Maria: Amen, Jesus and Mary: 

Jesus, Maria, y Jose. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. 

A generation has passed since Stevenson wrote of his visit 
to Carmel. At that time one might hear there, and perhaps 
at other Missions, the choral singing of a number of the In- 
dians who then remained in the neighborhood of their old 
haimts: an experience which Stevenson thus feelingly re- 
lates : — 

"... the Indians troop together, their bright dresses con- 
trasting with their dark and melancholy faces; and there, 
among a crowd of somewhat unsympathetic holiday-makers, 
you may hear God served with perhaps more touching cir- 
cumstances than in any other temple under heaven. An In- 
dian, stone-blind and about eighty years of age, conducts the 
singing; other Indians compose the choir; yet they have the 
Gregorian music at their finger ends, and pronounce the Latin 
so correctly that I could follow the music as they sang. The 
pronunciation was odd and nasal, the singing hurried and 
staccato. 'In saecula saeculo-ho-horum,' they went, with a 
vigorous aspirate to every additional syllable. I have never 
seen faces more vividly lit up with joy than the faces of these 
Indian singers. It was to them not only the worship of God, 
nor an act by which they recalled and commemorated better 
days, but was besides an exercise of culture, where all they 
knew of art and letters was united and expressed. And it made 
a man's heart sorry for the good fathers of yore who had 
taught them to dig and to reap, to read and to sing, who had 

374 



given them European mass-books which they still preserve 
and study in their cottages, and who had now passed away 
from all authority and influence in that land — to be suc- 
ceeded by greedy land-thieves and sacrilegious pistol-shots. 
So ugly a thing may our Anglo-Saxon Protestantism appear 
beside the doings of the Society of Jesus." 

Among those aged choristers were doubtless some who were 
the children of Indians whom Serra himself had taught to 
sing the music of the Church, for it was then not a century 
since the great Franciscan missionary had passed away. One's 
mind goes back over that century to the scene, described by 
his friend and biographer. Fray Francisco Palou, that fol- 
lowed his death at that same Mission. We see the sorrowing 
natives, to whom Junipero Serra had been more than in 
churchly title a Father, bringing from the fields their bunches 
of common wild flowers of every color, among them, no doubt, 
many a bouquet of those wild roses, "like those of Castile," 
for which the dead priest kept ever the warmest place in his 
heart. When the door of the cell where he lies is opened, they 
are already there, waiting to press in and cover with their 
offerings, consecrated with love and faithful tears, the body 
of their friend. And when, next day, the last rites are to 
be done, the Indians gather sadly in the church, to chant, 
"as well as they could for their sobs and lamentations," the 
solemn service for the dead. 

Only the other day it fell to my lot to hear, at another of 
the Missions, that same solemn music of the Requiem Mass. 
I had been the guest, for a few most pleasant days, of Father 
O'Sullivan, at Mission San Juan Capistrano. On the last 
morning of my visit I was wandering, soon after daybreak, 
among the yellowing walnut-groves that fill the valley of the 
little San Juan River, when the sound of the bells, rung as for 
a death or a burial, came to my ears. Old Acu, one of the last 

375 



^§e CaCifotnia {pcibxt& 



remaining three of the San Juaneiios (as the Mission Indians 
of San Juan were called) , was the ringer, as he has been, I sup- 
pose, at every death for a generation and a half of time. 



^ 



3 



(six times repeated) 

So called the bells, and by the two heavy strokes that fol- 
lowed I knew that it was a woman for whom we were bidden 
to pray (for a man, three would be sounded). 

I turned and made my way back to the Mission. Soft rolls 
of mist veiled the summits of the lomas, shining in the bright- 
ening light like feathers from the plumed wings of some mighty 
angel of the dawn. The new grass of the Cahfornia autumn- 
spring was gray as yet with dew. "Very early in the morning 
. . . they came unto the sepulchre at the rising of the sun"; 
the words of the Evangelist came to my mind. The sun came 
up. From gray of pearl the dew flashed into glitter of dia- 
mond. Bees came slowly humming about, and the Father's 
pigeons filled the air with whick, whick of rapid wings. Then 
black-shawled women, two or three only, began to arrive, and 
passed slowly up the path to the church. They might well 
have been those faithful women who came "bringing the 
spices which they had prepared, that they might anoint Him." 
Already the Father is in the sacristy, with two boys of the 
village who are to assist at the altar. For half an hour Dona 
Engracia has been at work preparing the tumba or catafalque, 
which now occupies the center of the church. Candles bum 
upon it and on the altar, and above it rises the token of the 
Christian hope, the crucifix. Three men (French, I think) 
from a neighboring ranch, who are to sing, come in and pass 
up to the gallery; then another, in sweater and leggings, 
carrying a violin. Then arrive four relatives of the dead 

376 



woman, a few of the regular attendants at early mass, and, 
last, old Apolonia, heralded by the loud tap-tapping of her 
stick on the tiled floor of the corridor. As she stiffly kneels 
in her accustomed place, her rosary rattles like a faint salute 
of musketry. 

The violin breaks the silence. The priest enters, and the 
service begins. From the gallery comes the wail of violin, 
the strong, sonorous singing of men — Kyrie Eleison, Christe 
Eleison, Kyrie Eleison; and then that mournful, beautiful, 
immemorial music of the Catholic Mass for the Dead. 

Old Acu creeps past me as I kneel, and goes out. Suddenly, 
startlingly, again the two solemn strokes are sounded, break- 
ing upon the chanting of the men and the murmuring voice 
of the priest. 

The service ends and I go out. The day is all a glory, after 
that dim candle glimmer. The altar-boys rush off on their 
bicycles to breakfast; the Frenchmen get into a wagon and 
drive briskly away. Early tourists already are gazing and 
photographing, and an artist is arranging his easel. 

To end this sketch of the music of the Missions, here is 
something of a different kind, a little cradle-song, taken down 
recently by my good entertainer above referred to, from the 
lips of Antonio Leyva, and passed on by him to me. Such 
items, much in the nature of folk-lore, are a treasure trove to 
students of olden California affairs, and this little verse, 
especially in the original, has, I think, a rather particular 
charm : — 

Pajarito, amarlllito, Little bird, yellow bird, 
Colorcito de limon, Golden of wing, 

Como quieres que te cante With my heart breaking 
Si me duele el corazon? How canst thou sing? 



DOLORES 




Mission Dolores and the Two Missions of the 
Contra Costa 

^N my quest of the old "Mission of Our Seraphic Father 
Saint P'rancis of Assisi," the electric car left me at Six- 
teenth and Dolores Streets. At the priest's house I inquired 
of a woman of comfortable rotundity, who answered my ring, 
the way of admittance to the old Mission church of the 
Franciscans. 

"You mean the adobe," she said, and directed me around 
the corner. 

It was something of a shock to hear this cradle of the Pacific 
Coast metropolis disposed of in such short fashion; but upon 
the average twentieth-century American the ethical worth of 
the Lady Poverty, it is to be feared, is largely lost. So the 
humble chapel of the Franciscans can hardly be expected to 
compete in public esteem with the overshadowing, double- 
towered church edifice which that morning was in process of 
construction on the land where the old red-tiled corridors of 
the Mission once ran. Men in their latter-day union-labor 
overalls, with the alert help of steam and electricity, were 
swinging huge steel beams about as easily as though they 
were straws, fashioning blocks of stone and dropping them 
into place, driving iron bolts and hammering rivets — here 
where a century and a quarter before a tonsured priest or 
two, gray gown tucked up in girdle, and a crowd of slow- 
moving, vacant-faced Indian neophytes at their heels, were 
moulding adobes, hewing timbers, and making tule thatch. 

381 



Yet to the same end all — the housing of the mysteries of an 
unchanging faith, that they might be appHed to salvation of 
human souls which generation after generation are bom into 
the same unchanging need. 

Of the original Mission establishment with its quadrangular 
arrangement of church, living-apartments, shops, and store- 
houses, and its Indian village of huts clustered about it Hke 
chicks about the mother hen, only the church part now stands. 
The door stood open, and within a bullet-headed Irishman 
with two lame legs hummed a ditty as he scrubbed the floor. 
He gave me a cheery welcome and, picking up his crutches, 
began the tour of the bare, darkling interior with me, reciting 
as he went his little stock of stories. I am ashamed to say I 
have forgotten most of them. They had to do, I believe, with 
altar furnishings and wooden carvings brought up from 
Mexico by ship and ox cart; and I do remember his apolo- 
gizing for the condition of the walls. These had formerly 
borne the usual crude decorations by Indian neophytes, but 
now presented a monotonous expanse of modern hard plaster 
spread to keep the original coating from being stolen piece- 
meal by souvenir collectors. One can but wonder what the 
public has gained by this method of circumventing robbery 
— the cure seems on a par with the disease. 

Although religious services are no longer held regularly 
within the old building, it was pleasant to learn that now and 
then a marriage is solemnized at the ancient altar — of 
people, sometimes, who were baptized in the church and are 
alive to the sentiment of such a matter. 

A feature of the Mission is the cemetery, well known to 
readers of Bret Harte — a weedy, tangled, down-at-the-heel 
cemetery, with the tombs and headstones at all angles, yet, 
in a way, more eloquent of the past than the taciturn old 
church; for every headstone tells a story. The most famous 

382 



*.~ i--. «il 







IN THE CEMETERY, MISSION DOLORES, SAN FRANCISCO 



Mib i^^x (VUi00ion0 



monument, perhaps, is a marble shaft above the remains of 
Don Luis Antonio Argiiello, first governor of Alta Cali- 
fornia under republican Mexico, and brother of the heroine 
of California's most famous romance. And somewhere in un- 
marked graves by the Mission walls are generations of In- 
dians — ten thousand of them, they say. 

Cosmopolitan, like the city that has risen about it, is this 
old campo santo, where Spanish and Italian, French and 
American, English and Irish and Indian, lie in peace together 
at last — particularly the Irish. The place is musical with 
their names — the Kellys and Burkes and Byrneses, the 
Cronins and Gallaghers, the Sheehans and Noonans, the 
Keenans and O'Briens, the McMahons, the McGinnises and 
McNamaras. All feuds stilled, their grimy, mossy headstones 
are cut deep with verses — alas, that they must be such dog- 
gerel! — voicing humanity's universal longing for a remeet- 
ing in a world where aching hearts and broken heads are 
known no more forever. Hamlet would have found this old 
Mission graveyard quite as much to his humor, I think, as 
was Elsinore's. For ready wit I would match ahnost any one 
of these Celtic skulls against Dane Yorick's. 

A neatly barbered, right-angled campo santo would be more 
respectful to the buried, I suppose; but somehow the half- 
wild tangle of this, with its unkempt malva rosas, its unre- 
strained myrtle wandering in gypsy freedom over rail and 
walk, its unpruned rosebushes, seems quite in keeping with 
the patriarchal, pastoral California, contemporaneous with 
the old Mission, the memory of which we cherish. Less than 
a century and a half ago, the vast city that has now all but 
swallowed up this God's acre was not even dreamed of; and 
all this Mission district of San Francisco, with solid rows of 
houses, street on street, was a sequestered wilderness valley 
where wild strawberries reddened in the summer sun, yerba 

383 



€^t CaCifotmia ^cibxt& 

buena yielded up its minty incense to the dainty tread of 
deer, and naked Indians came and went. 

Into it one March day of 1776 came riding that sturdy 
Spaniard Colonel Juan Bautista Anza, of whom we heard at 
San Gabriel. He had lately performed the unprecedented feat 
of convoying overland from Mexico to Monterey, through 
deserts and over mountains pathless until then, a band of 
colonists for the founding of a town at the port of San Fran- 
cisco — which port, though discovered seven years before, 
had remained unoccupied. Leaving the colonists at Mon- 
terey, Anza with a small escort went ahead to decide upon the 
sites for Mission and Presidio. In this pretty valley two miles 
from the bay shore, he found all requisites for a Mission 
foundation — timber, stone, arable ground, water, and In- 
dians. The water was supplied by a spring flowing into a 
large pond, whose margin was a couple of modern city blocks 
eastward of the present Mission. It was the Friday before 
Palm Sunday, the feast day of Our Lady of Sorrows (Nues- 
tra Senora de los Dolores, in Spanish) and the stream was 
accordingly named El Arroyo de los Dolores. Later the pond 
became known as La Laguna de los Dolores, and in process of 
time this same name Dolores came to be attached in popular 
parlance to the Mission, though the proper name for the latter 
has always been San Francisco de Asis. It was St. Francis of 
Assisi's Mission, not the Sorrowing Mother's. 

In the wake of Anza, the founding party from Monterey 
arrived — priests, soldiers, men and women colonists with 
their children, muleteers, vaqueros, and some christianized 
Indians to help in the communication with the raw Gentiles 
of the region. It was a motley procession enough, some afoot, 
some a-horseback, with a mule pack-train and a herd of three 
hundred cattle, for cattle in Old California formed the bed- 
rock of material wealth as in those more ancient days of the 

384 



race when money and cowhides were synonjonous. Doubtless 
the dryad of the old willow in whose shade we loitered and 
which grows still " beside the deep, brown wall " of the church, 
just as it did when Bret Harte long ago wove it into his sketch 
(though the deep, brown wall is now prosily sheathed in 
wood) — doubtless this dryad might have told a picturesque 
tale of that 9th of October, 1776, when the Mission was for- 
mally foimded — of the blessing of the ground and its sprin- 
kling with holy water; of the planting and the venerating of 
the great wooden cross, and the procession of priests and 
soldiers and colonists, with the image of the Seraphic Father 
St. Francis borne in triumph on his platform at the head amid 
the firing of guns and the chanting; and of the mass sung at 
the rustic altar set up in the little improvised brush chapel. 
Doubtless, if she is the sort of dryad I think she is, she would 
have enjoyed telling of this to sympathetic auditors, and 
how Padre Francisco Palou, one of the ministros fundadores, 
worked with the Indians at the raising of the first Httle chapel 
of wood with roof of thatch, that served the Mission for eight 
years before this adobe building was finished. 

This, assuming that the old willow was here when the 
Padres came; but as to that, quien sabe ? The Irish caretaker 
said, as I bade him good-bye, that the story told him was that 
the tree had grown from a switch of a thing planted by the 
grave of the first child buried in the churchyard. I hope he is 
wrong and that the tree is older than that — perhaps trans- 
planted from the willowy strand of that Laguna de los Dolores; 
for I am loath to give up that dryad of 1776. 

To Padre Palou Cahfornia owes her first book, an account 
of the life and labors of Junipero Serra. It was during Palou's 
incumbency at the Mission Dolores, between 1776 and 1784, 
that he wrote the work, "amid the heathen surroundings of 
the port of San Francisco." It is a narrative of more general 

38s 



€^t CaCifotmb ^CiW$ 



interest than one might imagine from the subject and tells 
many an incident of the sort that everyday folk like to know, 
about the first fifteen years of the Spanish occupation of the 
country. A certain monkish point of view that tinctures the 
style adds a sort of piquancy for the lover of old-time matters. 
There is the Padre's gossip about the Gentile Indians of the 
San Francisco peninsula, for instance. It may be a little lack- 
ing in scientific exactness to suit the ethnologist, but it is 
enlivened with many a human touch that the general reader 
would not willingly spare; as his statement of their going 
about unclothed "like Uttle Adams [Adamitos] without a 
blush, that is, the men," the women, it seems, being "hon- 
estly" attired in a sort of divided skirt of native fiber cloth. 
A fact that adds to the glory of the Franciscan "conquest" 
is that the Cahfornia Indian was never in the class with his 
alert red brethren east of the Sierras. The Cahfornians were 
markedly lacking in those picturesque qualities that have 
contributed to our interest in other Indians. Of low mentaUty 
individually, their social organization was the most primi- 
tive; and, although they gathered themselves into small vil- 
lages, there was no chief in a political sense, each family being 
a good deal of a law to itself. They were cowardly and light- 
fingered. At San Diego, within a few days after their first 
sight of a white man, they stole the very sheets from the in- 
valid soldiers' beds and cribbed Padre Serra's spectacles to 
the poor Father's great discomfort, till the thief was caught 
with the property on him and was known forever after as 
Barabbas; while Anza tells of a curious tribe in the San 
Jacinto country, called by the Spaniards dansantes, who at 
pilfering were expert equally with feet and hands. As horse- 
thieves, the California Gentiles became disquietingly adept; 
but even their operations in this respect were hopelessly prosy, 
for they ran off the horses not to ride them, but to eat them. 

386 



To their indisposition to fight, combined with lack of social 
organization, is due the fact that a handful of Spaniards were 
able to maintain themselves in dominion over fifty thousand 
Indians in the Mission territory. 

Sickness made appalHng inroads among the San Francisco 
neophytes. One summer day of 1814 there was buried in the 
campo santo of the Mission Dolores an old Indian woman 
named Biridiana, and Padre Abella who registered the burial 
added this note: "The last adult that saw the first ministers 
who founded the Mission. . . . For six leagues roundabout all 
have died of those who saw the first Fathers; and of those 
born since few are they who live." 

That tells the health story of the first thirty-eight years at 
San Francisco. To the Padres, who before all else were phy- 
sicians of the soul, and scarcely at all of the body, the mor- 
tality was very surprising. "These Indians," they marveled, 
"are more brittle than glass" {mas frdgiles que el vidrio). 
Unable to stem the advancing tide of death, the mission- 
aries decided at last to estabHsh an asistencia in a more healthy 
situation. They fixed upon a site northward across the bay — 
the region called the Contra Costa — in a quiet cove of the 
wooded hills opening to the water, but sheltered from the 
harsh ocean winds. Here on December 14, 181 7, was founded 
the Mission San Rafael Arcangel, at first used as a sort of 
sanatorium for San Francisco. Its dedication to the Arch- 
angel Raphael was "in order that this most glorious prince, 
who in his name expresses 'the healing of God,' may care for 
bodies as well as souls." 

The friar whose name is especially associated with Mission 
San Rafael is Padre Juan Amoros, a kindly man of fine abil- 
ity, who served from the founding until his death in 1832. 
He had formerly been Presidio chaplain at Monterey, whither 
on Sundays he would come from Carmel with a store of sweet 

387 



^§e CaCifovma (J)a^veff 

figs, dates, and raisins in his sleeve to distribute to the chil- 
dren at Sunday-School. Rare Padre Juan! His saintly 
memory even until recent years was cherished by old Spanish 
people of the San Francisco Bay region, and Guadalupe Val- 
lejo has given us a pleasant story of that same sleeve that 
won fame at Monterey. It seems that Padre Juan, while at 
San Rafael, was in the habit of carrying his dinner in it when 
he went abroad — an ear of dry corn roasted over the coals. 
One noon, during the Padre's absence to oversee the neophytes 
at work at a distant part of the Mission lands, some travelers 
called, thinking to get an invitation to a free dinner, after the 
hospitable Mission custom. When informed by the matter-of- 
fact Indian servant that there was no dinner for them, be- 
cause the Padre had gone away and taken the dinner in his 
sleeve, the wayfarers departed in an ill humor, and were well 
bantered when the joke on them leaked out. 

Never a very prosperous establishment, San Rafael rapidly 
fell to pieces after secularization, and De Mofras found it a 
ruin in 1841 — with, however, some superb tobacco plants 
in the old garden, and twenty Indians and an Irishman 
named Murphy on the land. To-day no vestige of the Mis- 
sion remains. Nevertheless the work of the Church still goes 
forward in the beautiful little city that has grown up on 
the Mission's land. In the midst of a garden of magnolias 
and palms, apricot and orange trees, fragrant beds of roses, 
lilies, and violets, and glowing banks of geraniums, a Catholic 
church lifts its cross-tipped spire, and holds an open door to 
the devout. Though my worshiping of God is after the way 
which Rome calls heresy, I hoped it was not an intrusion to 
step inside and bow my spirit for a moment in silent prayer. 
It was a lofty interior, rather splendid, in fact, with pictures 
and decorations, and statues with candles burning before 
them; and the sunlight streaming through stained-glass win- 

388 



dows gave a certain pure joyousness to the place, more to my 
mood just then than any sermon could have been. The mur- 
murs of children's voices at recitation in the Dominican 
Sisters' school next door floated in, a dreamy music, and by 
and by their exercise ended in a hymn. 

Whether by automobile or train, it is a picturesque ride 
from SausaUto, across the bay from San Francisco, to the 
historic old pueblo of Sonoma, in the "Valley of the Moon," 
where you will find amid vineyards and orchards some rem- 
nant of that omega of the Franciscan establishments, the 
Mission San Francisco Solano. 

The manner of this Mission's coming into being was not 
altogether orthodox. When the nineteenth century was still 
newly turned of twenty, there came to Mission Dolores a 
young friar, Jose Altitnira by name, full of missionary zeal 
and, it would seem, conceit of Padre Jose Altimira. The 
moribund condition of Dolores, due to the sickliness of the 
neophytes and infertility of the soil, proved such a damper 
to his ambition that he decided to move the Mission across 
the bay to some new site and take San Rafael along for good 
measure. He obtained from the new Mexican governor 
Argiiello and the legislature the needful permission, and, 
without waiting for the sanction of his ecclesiastical superiors, 
the heady young priest looked up a spot to his mind in the 
Sonoma Valley where the climate and soil were good and the 
field of unharvested Gentilism promising. There on July 4, 
1823, he blithely planted the cross of his new Mission, which 
he called New San Francisco. The veto of the Padre Presi- 
dente, scandalized by such action sine privilegio, soon brought 
matters to a standstill, however; and it was not until after a 
lengthy wrangle in the interest of right procedure that the 
fiery friar was permitted to go ahead. The following spring 
saw the completion of the first church, which was built of 

389 



boards and whitewashed, while much of the furnishing was 
the gift of the Russians at Bodega Bay, who, possibly with a 
view to future trade, felt the advisability of establishing an 
entente cordiale with the new enterprise. The dedication was 
on April 4, 1824, when, first, the Mission was put under the 
patronage of St. Francis Solanus. But, after all, this Mission 
was born out of time: the sun of the Mission day was at its 
setting, and the new establishment was hardly under way 
before the night of secularization swallowed it up. The Rus- 
sian explorer. Von Kotzebue, at the time of his second visit 
to California, in the autumn of 1824, speaks of this Mission 
as "peeping from amid the foHage of ancient oaks." To-day 
there are no ancient oaks about it, and the building, far from 
peeping, stands nakedly in the open at the corner of two cross- 
streets, a towerless, barnlike structure of adobe under a 
shingle roof with a big wooden cross. This, with one corridored 
wing, is all that remains of the former establishment. Much 
of it, indeed, is an evident restoration, due, I believe, to the 
interest of the Native Sons and Daughters of the Golden 
West, whose plan includes still more restoring and the en- 
sconcing of an historical museum within the chapel. The 
morning of my call, all was inhospitality. The door was locked 
and the windows barricaded; and thus was frustrated my 
cherished desire to see the resting-place of Dona Maria 
Ignacia Lopez de Carrillo. She, I had gathered in some of my 
skimming of historical cream, was a lady of interesting asso- 
ciations. The daughter of a soldier of the guard at Mission 
San Gabriel, she married another man of war, one Joaquin 
Carrillo, of local fame in his day as a violinist and for having 
once been sentenced to the stocks by his comandante for tak- 
ing an unconscionable time to tune his fiddle. Whether of his 
own desire or that of her family I do not know, but the lady's 
remains were buried under the font of this Mission church of 

390 



Sonoma in order that she might profit by all future droppings 
of holy water at that spot. It was a conceit worthy of her 
picturesque race — a humble sort of echo of that more grandi- 
ose act of the royal builder of the Escorial, whose burial vault 
in the palace chapel was so placed as to catch the sound of the 
masses that should be said at the altar there for all time.^ 

San Francisco Solano's last cura was the picturesque Padre 
Jose Lorenzo de la Concepcion Quijas. He is thought to have 
been an Ecuadorian Indian, and in early Ufe was a muleteer; 
but, being crossed in love, he abandoned the pack-saddle for 
the cowl of St. Francis. He was a big man physically, with 
a kind heart, and a preacher of some power, without fear of 
calling a spade a spade when dealing with contemporary mis- 
doing. His muleteerism, however, seems never to have got 
out of his blood; or possibly his frequent visits to the Russian 
traders at Fort Ross undermined his morals; for it is said he 
had as light a foot at a dance as the best. As for drinking, 
Governor Alvarado, a good judge, held that the friar could 
put any man in California under the table. He had fallen on 
decadent times, poor Fray Jose, and perhaps one may not 
expect of Padres who are allowed curtained beds of down the 
austerity of spirit that is supposed to go with a bull hide laid 
on the floor and an adobe for a pillow. I find it pleasant to 
know that Padre Quijas lived to do better; for, in 1843, a 
Swedish traveler saw him at Mission San Jose, quite sober. 
Ah, well, "what's done, we partly may compute, but know 
not what's resisted." 

^ Dona Maria Ignacia was the mother-in-law of that General Mariano 
Guadalupe Vallejo, whose name still survives more or less mispronounced in 
a town on San Pablo Bay and in Vallejo Street, San Francisco. He was one of 
the best-known men in California in the days of the Mexican domination and 
of the American conquest, and perhaps the richest. Upon the grill of Gringoism, 
however, his real estate melted away like fat in the fire, and at the time of his 
death, in 1890, only his little home place, "Lacrima Montis," a mile or two out 
of Sonoma, remained to him of all his princely estate. 



€^^ CaCifomia ^cibu$ 
II 

The Rose and the Pine 

^N the records of the early history of California, no name 
^ meets the eye more often than that of Argiiello. First Jose 
Dario Argiiello under Spain, and later Luis Antonio Argiiello 
under Mexico, father and son, did their best, as acting gov- 
ernor and governor respectively, in guiding the troublous af- 
fairs of the province of Alta CaUfomia. It is the last-named 
whose moniunent in the old cemetery of Mission Dolores at 
San Francisco is known, no doubt, to many of my readers, and 
whose name is preserved also by that Cape Argiiello, on the 
stormy, fog-haunted coast just north of Point Conception, 
where a few years ago there occurred the tragic wreck of the 
steamship Santa Rosa. 

But the name brings especially to mind a different kind of 
drama from that, — one which dwells in the recollection 
most, perhaps, because of its picturesque conjunction of char- 
acters. The sunny pastoral of the old California Ufe, and the 
chill, semi-barbaric obscurity of the Russia of a century ago, 
make a strange contrast of backgrounds for even the world- 
wide action of love. Spanish-Californian heroine and Mus- 
covite hero — it is an allotment that strikes the imagination, 
and that seems, perhaps, to carry in its very essence a threat 
of tragedy. The pine may sigh for the rose, but must not 
mate with it. 

In the baptismal records of Mission Dolores, under the 
date of the 26th of February, 1791, may be read an entry of 
the baptism of a girl, born on the 13th of the same month, 
who was the daughter of Don Jose Argiiello, Lieutenant- 
Captain and Commandant of the Royal Presidio of San Fran- 

392 



cisco, and who was christened in the names of Maria de la 
Concepcion Marcela. Somewhere in far-away Russia, that 
day, perhaps with the Court at St. Petersburg, was a young 
noble. Count Nikolai Petrovich Rezanof , marked out by the 
Emperor for distinction, if all went well. And Fate, careless 
or careful — who can tell? — taking up the new thread of 
life, tied it with that of the Russian boy. 

It is the year 1803 when we next meet our actors. Some- 
where in those twelve years Fate had brought in another 
thread, twisted it with the Russian one, and snapped it off; 
but the first knot holds, and the lines are drawing together. 
Count Rezanof, now Imperial Chamberlain, having recently 
lost his yoimg wife, is sent by his master on a special mission 
to Japan, in the hope that travel will benefit the young wid- 
ower. 

While he is busy about his negotiations, across the sea 
we find the girl Concepcion already the most beautiful of 
California's daughters, the pride of her father Don Jose and 
her gallant brother Don Luis; and that is to say, the pride of 
the proudest family of Spanish CaHfornia. 

It was about this time that there began those persistent 
efforts of the Russians to gain a footing on California terri- 
tory which led, a few years later, to the building of Fort Ross, 
near the mouth of the Russian River. It was as a preliminary 
to these attempts that in April, 1806, the frigate Juno sailed 
into San Francisco Bay, with Count Rezdnof on board. "Who 
ever loved that loved not at first sight? " the poet says. How 
it may have been with Rezanof 's earlier attachment one can- 
not tell; but now Fate brings her playthings together, the 
rose and the pine, and love kindles on the instant. Nothing 
strange, either. This is the description of the Senorita Con- 
cepcion penned by Von Langsdorff, who was surgeon and 
naturalist on Rezanof 's vessel: "... lively and animated, 

393 



^^e CaCifoma ^clIx^0 



with sparkling, love-inspiring eyes, beautiful teeth, pleasing 
and expressive features, a fine form, and a thousand other 
charms, yet perfectly simple and artless." 

Of Rezanof's personality we have no picture. Cynics will 
say that, at least mingled in the girl's feeling for the Russian, 
there was a foolish fascination for the polished courtier, the 
traveled man of the world, the representative of a great and 
wonderful empire. That would not be strange, for she was 
only fifteen, an inexperienced half-woman, half-child — and 
the glamour of great name and great station find plenty of 
followers, with less excuse, to-day. But the cynic, devil's 
advocate, has no evidence to bring : rather, all the facts point 
to the girl's attachment being a deep and pure one. There is, 
indeed, no reason why we should not believe the best of the 
beautiful Concepcion's romance. Why should not that be 
wholly beautiful, too? 

We can imagine the course of events for the lovers in that 
little isolated community of the San Francisco of a century 
ago. Everything that could be done would be done to show 
courtesy to the distinguished stranger. There would be 
dances on shore, dinners on shipboard, picnics and boating 
parties at which they would meet, while the charm of each 
daily grew upon the other. Diplomatic duties no doubt suf- 
fered, for Love and Beauty were Rezanof's mission at present. 
The matter ripened quickly, and before long he asked the girl 
to betroth herself to him. Her heart was given already, but 
she was a Spaniard , and her parents must be consulted . There 
came in the first shadow on their idyll. Rezanof was not a 
Catholic, and Don Jose and Dona Ygnacia objected. It may 
well be doubted whether a stronger point of objection was 
not that of the separation from their daughter that marriage 
would bring; be that as it may, backed by the Church on re- 
ligious scruples, they forbade the match. 

394 



atxb t^zxx Qtlt00ton0 

But Concepcion, child as she was, was determined: she 
would not give up her lover. The parents were distracted; 
the priests even appealed to Rome; but in the end the girl's 
resolution prevailed. The marriage contract was drawn up, 
and a formal betrothal took place. Once more Love had 
laughed at difficulties, and, it seemed, had conquered. After 
all, the rose should grace the pine. 

It was now necessary for the Count to return to St. Peters- 
burg, both on diplomatic grounds and also in order to make 
arrangements for the marriage. A long journey that was, in 
those days, but the time should be as short as lover's haste 
could make it. So Rezdnof sailed away for Kamchatka, 
whence he was to travel overland through the vast Siberian 
wastes, while Concepcion Argiiello, like a budding rose, in- 
deed, would be preparing to bloom in fullest loveliness as a 
bride. 

One wonders whether no shadowy warning ever crossed the 
girl's mind. Did the blast fall upon the rose like a deadly 
frost at some sunny noontide? Did thoughts of black robes 
and the cloister never cross her dreams of imperial splendors 
and silk array? Perhaps. 

Something over a year had passed since the Juno's arrival. 
Then one day another vessel carrying the Russian ensign 
sailed into the bay. Among the assembled gazers Concepcion 
watched with beating heart. Could he have returned so soon? 
Was all arranged? When should the wedding be? To think 
of it, the Countess Rezanof! And she already saw herself, 
what her lover had often told her she soon should be, the 
beauty of wonderful foreign cities, instead of merely Con- 
cepcion Argiiello, daughter of a poor commandant of this 
outlandish port of San Francisco. She ran home, went to her 
little room, and quickly getting out her best gown and her 
simple ornaments, made ready to receive her lover. Alas, 

395 



't^t CaCifomta ^abte« 



poor rose! Is there yet no thought of the coming lifelong 
sorrow? 

Her mother is at the door, and calls her. "Yes, yes, I will 
come, I am almost ready, madre mia. Is he — is Count 
Nikolai . . . ?" Dona Ygnacia enters. There is that in her 
look that chills the girl's happy excitement, " Come to me, 
nina mia.'" Concepcion comes slowly, her eyes, under the 
falUng showers of dusky hair, searching her mother's face. 
"Kneel by me here, Conchita," says the mother. The long 
unused pet name of childhood strikes forebodingly upon the 
girl, "What is it, madre mia? Has he not come? Is it not 
his ship? I did not stay to see. . . . Why do you look at me 
so? He is not ill?" 

Dona Ygnacia took the brush from the girl's hand and 
began to smooth the rich, dark hair. '^Ay de mi, Chita mia, 
ay de mi! Yes, he is ill. No, he is . . . Holy Mother! how can 
I tell the child? Listen, Chita mia: Count Nikolai will not 
come back — no, never. He had an accident; his horse , . . 
Ah, Dios ! poor child ! It is well, indeed, that you pray ! " For 
Concepcion had understood. Pale as death, she had risen and 
walked to where the little crucifix hung beside her bed. There 
she knelt, white and tearless, while her heart aged from the 
eager, happy heart of a girl, all but a bride, to the dulled, 
unexpecting heart of a woman who suddenly knew that life, 
in holding out to her a splendid prize, had meant only to trap 
her into centering all upon it, and then — to mock her. 

Her mother waited for a time in sUence, then, half fright- 
ened at the girl's stillness, she went to her, and, kneeling, 
again smoothed the glossy hair, murmuring from time to 
time, ^^Ay de mi, mi pobrecita! ay de mi, corazoni" After a 
while the girl rose and said quietly, "Tell me, my mother." 
And Dona Ygnacia told her what Don Jose had learned from 
the officers on the ship, that while crossing the Siberian desert 

396 



Count Rezanof had been thrown from his horse and killed. 
His servant had buried the body, and gone on with his 
master's papers to St. Petersburg. That was all. And so the 
thread that Fate had twined with the Hfe of Concepcion 
Argiiello had been broken off and carelessly tossed away in 
some desolate, unnamed soKtude, while hers was left to pursue 
its way to the end, alone. 

The next day, Concepcion, pale and calm, asked her mother 
to get her the dress of a beata, — one who, without having 
taken rehgious vows, has devoted herself to works of charity. 
Her parents little thought that she would persist long in the 
mood, and to humor her made no opposition. And so the 
beautiful Concepcion, Rose of California (a poor, drooping 
rose, now), passed into La Beata Bellisima, seen no more at 
the balls and gayeties of the Httle port, but to be found hence- 
forth at the bedsides of sick Indians, or helping the Fathers 
at the Mission in teaching the children the Christian Doc- 
trine and Catechism. 

For it was not a passing mood. There was something in the 
girl of sixteen that went deeper than her father and mother 
had sounded: some root of asceticism, it may be, come down 
from old Spanish ancestors; but why not, rather, the deep, 
eternal woman's heart turning, by Heaven-given instinct, 
with its wound, to that only deeper fountain of love, the 
Heart of God? In any case, from the day the news came to 
her of the death of her lover, Concepcion Argiiello pursued 
steadfastly the life — barren and cheerless, it would appear 
to many of us, as those chill Siberian wastes — of one 
divorced, or, say, widowed, from the world. As years pass, 
we trace her at Santa Barbara, where suitors tried in vain to 
break her purpose; in Mexico; then for years at the Mission 
of Soledad (that "gloomiest, bleakest, most abject-looking 
spot in all California " — so a traveler about that time de- 

397 



€^^ CdCifotnia ^cCbxt^ 



scribed it), as a member of the Third Order of Franciscans. 
The long-desired refuge of a convent had not yet opened to 
her, but when, in 1850, the Bishop Alemany arrived in Cali- 
fornia, Concepcion Argiiello hastened to ask entrance into any 
religious house for women that might be estabhshed- 

Accordingly, when, the next year, a convent of Domini- 
cans was opened at Monterey, the first to enter was Concep- 
cion Argiiello. And here she put away even the name that 
came with her from that long-past time of love, of visions, of 
romance. Her first name she kept, but it was as Concepcion 
that she had ruled her httle court of love and beauty. Sister 
Maria Dominica she now became, and with that, the world 
saw her no more. But let us rather think of her as Concep- 
cion, the rose of our sad little romance, to the end. And the 
end was now not far away. Somehow, one likes to think of her 
as habited in white, our sorrowful, broken rose, and such was 
her dress, in fact, both as novice and as professed nun. We 
follow her, then, in mind, a few years farther, a black-veiled, 
white-robed figure, moving day by day through the monot- 
onous round of work, meditation, and prayer. Do dreams of 
silken gowns, of brilliant scenes, wit and laughter, still fall 
across her dreary, regulated thoughts, to be hurriedly put 
aside, no longer, perhaps, with a sob, but even now, after long 
years, with a sigh? It must be so, for that long constancy 
surely tells that Concepcion Argiiello was all a woman. 

After three years the convent was removed from Monterey 
— now no longer the capital of a Mexican province — to 
Benicia, on the opposite side of San Francisco Bay from the 
rapidly growing new metropolis. Of the life of Concepcion 
in these last years nothing is told; and indeed there could be 
nothing to tell, for her concern with the world had ended long 
before. For three years longer the half-Hfe dragged out within 
the convent walls, and then it came to its release. In the 

398 



cemetery of the convent Concepcion rests, under a cross of 
brown stone, on which the visitor reads only the words: — 

SISTER MARfA DOMINICA 
O. S. D. 

The records of the convent reveal the following touching 

entry : — 

"In the Monastery of Saint Catharine of Siena at Benicia, 
CaHfornia, died Sister Maria Dominica Argiiello, December 
23, 1857. She was buried on Christmas Eve, and was dressed 
in her white habit as a nun; she was carried on a bier into the 
chapel of the convent; first the cross-bearer bearing the cross, 
then the young girls of the convent followed dressed in black ; 
then the novices in white, with white veils, carrying lighted 
tapers; then followed the professed nuns, with black veils and 
lighted tapers, signifying that she had gone from darkness up 
to light and life. After the solemn requiem service was ended, 
the last benediction of the Catholic Church was pronounced 
over her mortal remains, Requiescat in pace, dismissing a 
tired soul out of all the storms of life into the divine tran- 
quillity of death. The next morning was Christmas Day, and 
we hope her pure spirit was joining in the angelic chorus, 
* Glory be to God on high, and on earth peace to men of good 
will,' and that she realized the fullness of that glorious sen- 
tence, *Let me go, for the day breaketh. ... I have seen God 
face to face, and my soul has been saved.' (Gen. xxxii, 26, 

30.)" 
Farewell, indeed, poor rose, and rest in peace! 



THE END 



HOW TO REACH THE MISSIONS 



HOW TO REACH THE MISSIONS 

San Diego — Private conveyance from the city of San Diego; or 
Kensington Park electric car on Adams Avenue to crossing 
of Mission Drive will take one within a mile of the Mission. 

San Antonio de Pala — Santa Fe Railway to Oceanside; thence 
auto stage, twenty-five miles, to Pala. 

San Luis Rey — Santa Fe Railway to Oceanside; thence stage 
five miles. 

San Juan Capistrano — Santa Fe Railway to town of San Juan 
Capistrano. 

San Gabriel — Southern Pacific Railway to town of San Gabriel. 
From Los Angeles the Pacific Electric cars are the most 
direct, passing in front of the Mission. 

San Fernando — Southern Pacific Railway to Station of Fer- 
nando; thence one mile by electric car. From Los Angeles 
the Pacific Electric cars to San Fernando are the most 
direct, passing in front of the Mission. 

San Buenaventura — Southern Pacific Railway to the city of 
Ventura. 

Santa Barbara — Southern Pacific Railway to the city of Santa 
Barbara. 

Santa Ines — Southern Pacific Railway to Gaviota; thence stage 
seventeen miles. Or, Southern Pacific Railway to San Lms 
Obispo or Guadalupe; thence Pacific Coast Railway to Los 
Olivos, whence it is six miles by private conveyance to the 
Mission. 

La Purisima — Southern Pacific Railway to Lompoc; thence 
four miles by private conveyance. 

San Luis Obispo — Southern Pacific Railway to city of San 
Luis Obispo. 

San Miguel — Southern Pacific Railway to town of San Miguel. 

San Antonio de Padua — Southern Pacific Railway to King 
City; auto stage, twenty miles, to hamlet of Jolon; thence 

403 



^0))) to (K^ac^ t^^ (Ulwion^ 

six miles by private conveyance, if procurable. (The neigh- 
borhood is sparsely settled.) 

SoLEDAD — Southern Pacific Railway to town of Soledad; thence 
four miles by private conveyance. 

San Carlos de Monterey (Carmel) — Southern Pacific Rail- 
way to Monterey; thence stage, five miles, to Carmel-by- 
the-Sea. The Mission is an easy mile walk from the latter 
town. 

San Juan Bautista — Southern Pacific Railway to Sargent; 
thence six miles by stage. 

Santa Clara — In town of Santa Clara on Southern Pacific Rail- 
way; or electric car from city of San Jose. 

San Jose — Southern Pacific Railway to Irvington; thence four 
miles by stage. 

San Francisco de Asis — In city of San Francisco, Dolores 
Street, near Sixteenth. 

San Rafael — In town of San Rafael on California & North- 
western Railway from San Francisco. 

San Francisco Solano — In the town of Sonoma, on California 
& Northwestern Railway from San Francisco. 



PRONOUNCING GLOSSARY 



PRONOUNCING GLOSSARY 

OF 

SPANISH WORDS, PROPER NAMES, AND PHRASES 

(The pronunciations given are according to Spanish-Califomian usage, rather than Castilian. 
In Spanish America, the lisped c and zof Castile are not heard, initial and medial g is often 
elided, and the I sound in / mouitUe (II) is usually suppressed. In the given pronunciations, a is 
sounded as in ale; e as in edict; i as in ice; o as in only; and h as a rendering of Spanish j is guttural, 
almost like the German ch. The single r is to be trilled slightly, the double r strongly.] 

Abella, Ramon: rah-mon' ah-bal'ya. 

Acii: ah-coo'. 

Agua Caliente: ah'gwa cal-e-an'ta; hot springs, lit. hot water. 

Aguardiente: ah-gwar-de-an'ta; brandy. 

Agustin: ah-goos-teen'. 

Alabado: ah-lah-bah'do; p. part, of dabar, to praise. 

Alabanzas: ah-lah-bahn'sas; praises. 

AlbanU: ahl-bahn-yeel'; mason. 

Alcalde: al-cahl'da; overseer of a band of neophytes. 

Alejandro: ah-la-hahn'dro. 

AUsos, los: los al-ee's6s; the sycamores. 

Alta: ahl'ta; upper. The peninsular part of the country was known 

as Baja (bah'ha, lower) California. 
Altimira, Jose: ho-sa' ahl-te-me'ra. 
Alvarado: ahl-vah-rah'do. 
Ambris, Doroteo: do-ro-ta'o ahm-brees'. 
Ambrosio: ahm-bro'se-o. 
Amoros, Juan: hwahn ah-mo-ros'. 
Anita: ahn-ee'ta. 
Antif onal : ahn-te-f 6n-ahl' . 

Anza, Juan Bautista: hwahn bow-tees' ta ahn'sa {bow as in bower). 
Argiiello, Concepcion: con-cep-ce-6n' ar-wa'yo. 
Argiiello, Jose Dario: ho-sa' dah-ree'o ar-wa'yo. 
Arguello, Luis Antonio: loo'is an-to'nyo ar-wa'yo. 
Arriero: ahr-re-a'ro; muleteer. 

Arrillaga, Jose Joaquin de: ho-sa' hwah-keen' da arr-e-yah'ga. 

407 



^tjonouncing 6fo00at^ 



Arroyo: arr-o'yo; a small stream. 

Arroyo de las Llagas: arr-o'yo da las yah'gahs; brook of the 

wounds [of St. Francis]. 
Arroyo Grande: arr-o'yo grahn'da; big brook. 
Arturo: ar-too'ro. 
Atole: at-o'la; a kind of gruel. 
Ay de mi: I da me; alas! 

Ballena: bah-ya'na; whale. 
Barbarita: bar-bar-ee'ta; dimin. of Barbara. 
Barron, Silvestre: sel-vas'tra bahr-ron'. 
Bartolo: bar-to'lo. 
Beata: ba-ah'ta. 
Belen: ba-lan'; Bethlehem. 
Bellisima: ba-yee'se-ma; most beautiful. 
Bernardino: ber-nar-dee'no. 
Borica: bor-ee'ca. 

Boscana, Geronimo: ha-ro'ne-mo bos-cah'na. 
Buchon: boo-chon'; lit. a big craw, as of a fowl. 
Buenas noches: bwa'nas no'chas; good night, good evening. 
Buen ginete en la sala: bwan he-na'ta en la sah'la. 
Bueno: bwa'no; good. 

Busca cinco pies al gato teniendo cuatro: boos'ca seen'co pe-as'al 
gah'to ta-ne-an'do kwah'tro. 

Caballero: cah-vah-ya'ro; gentleman, sir. 

Cabot, Juan: hwahn cah-bot'. 

Cabot, Pedro: pa'dro cah-bot'. 

Cajon: cah-hon'; box. 

Calabasas: cah-lah-bah'sas; gourds. 

Calesa: cah-la'sa; chaise. 

Camilo: cah-me'lo. 

Caminante, el: el cah-meen-ahn'ta; the traveler. 

Camino real: cah-me'no ra-ahl'; king's highway. 

Campanario: cahm-pan-ah're-o; belfry, campanile. 

Campo santo: cahm'po sahn'to; cemetery, lit. a holy tract of 

ground. 
Camulos: cah-moo'los. 
Canada: can-yah'da; valley. 

408 



(ptonouncin^ (BCo^Mt'g 



Canada de los Robles: can-yah'da da los ro'blas; valley of the 
(deciduous) oaks. 

Cantico del Alba: cahn'te-co del ahl'ba; canticle of the dawn. 

Cantor: cahn-tor'; singer, chorister. 

Cara sucia: cah'ra soo'ce-a; clown, Ht. dirty face. 

Cardenas, Fernando: fer-nahn'do car'da-nas. 

Carmelo: car-ma'lo. 

Carpinteria: car-pin-ta-ree'a; carpenter shop; place so called be- 
cause the Portola expedition found Indians building a canoe 
there. 

Carrillo, Joaquin: hwah-keen' car-ree'yo. 

Carrillo, Maria Ignacia Lopez de: mah-ree'a ig-nah'ce-a lo'pgs da 
car-ree'yo. 

Catala, Magin: mah-heen' cah-ta-lah'. 

Cavalier, Jose: ho-sa' cah-vahl-yar'. 

Cayucos: cah-yoo'cos; canoes. 

Cerro: cer'ro; hill. 

Chaparral: chap-a-rahl'; underbrush. 

Chaves, Antonio: an-to'nyo chah'ves, 

Chia: chee'a; a common plant of the sage family. 

Cholo: cho'lo; Spanish-Indian half-breed of low caste. 

Cielo: ce-a'lo; inter j. heavens! 

Comandante : co-mahn-dahn'ta. 

Comisario Prefecto: co-me-sah're-o pra-fac'to. 

Como esta: co'mo stah; colloquialism, how are you? 

Companero: com-pahn-ya'ro; companion. 

Concepcion: con-cep-ce-on'. 

Conchita: con-chee'ta; pet name, equivalent of Concepcion. 

Convento: con- van' to; the part of a Mission containing the Uving 
rooms. 

Corazon: cor-ah-son'; heart; often used as a term of endearment. 

Costanso, Miguel: me-gal' c6s-tahn-so'. 

Crespi, Juan: hwahn cres-pee'. 

Cristianitos, los: los cris-te-ahn-ee'tos; dimin. of Cristianos. 

Cristianos, los: los cris-te-ahn'os; the Christians. 

Cuadro: kwah'dro; courtyard of a Mission; same as patio. 

Cuesta: coo-ast'a; hill. 

Cuesta, Felipe del Arroyo de la: fa-lee'pa del arr-o'yo da la coo- 
ast'a. 

409 



^t:onounctn(5 (SCo^^at^ 



Cupenos: coo-pa'nyos; the people of Cupa. 
Cura: coo'ra; parish-priest; Fr. cure. 

Diablo, el: el de-ah'blo. 

Diantre: de-ahn'tra; inter j. the deuce! 

Diego y Moreno, Francisco Garcia: frahn-cees'co gar-cee'a de- 

a'go e mo-ra'no. 
Doc, Felipe Santiago: fa-lee'pa sahn-te-ah'go doc. 
Dolores: do-l6r'es. 
Domingo: do-meen'go. 
Don de amor: don da ah-mor'; love-gift. 
Duarte, Leandro: la-ahn'dro doo-ahr'ta. 
Duran, Narciso: nar-cee'so doo-rahn'. 

Echeandia: a-cha-ahn-dee'a. 

Elena: a-la'na. 

Encarnacion: en-car-nah-ce-on'. 

Engracia, Dona: do'nya en-grah'ce-a. 

Enramada: en-ra-mah'da; shelter built of brush; also called 

ramada. 
Enriquez, Ramon: rah-mon' en-ree'kes. 
Escorpion: es-cor-pe-on'. 
Esteban: es-ta'bahn. 
Estenaga, Tomas: to-mahs' es-ta'na-ga. 
Excelente: aks-sa-lan'ta. 

Fages, Pedro: pa'dro fah-has'. 

Felipe: fa-lee'pa. 

Fernandino: fer-nand-ee'no. 

Fernandito: fer-nand-ee'to. 

Florencio: flo-ran'ce-o. 

Flores, Tiburcio: te-boor'ce-o flor'es. 

Fraile: fri'la; friar. 

Fray: fri; contraction oi fraile, used as an appellative; abbr. Fr. 

Frijoles: fre-ho'les; pink beans. 

Fuster, Vicente: ve-cen'ta foo-star'. 

Gabriel: gah-bre-el'. 

Galanteador: gah-lahn-ta-ah-dor'; courtier, gallant. 

410 



^tonouncinij (5fo00at^ 



Garbanzos: gar-bahn'sos; chick-peas. 

Garcia, Diego: de-a'go gar-cee'a. 

Gaviota: gav-e-o'ta; sea-gull; place so named because the soldiers 

of Portola shot one there. 
Gente de razon: han'ta da rah-son'; lit. people of intelligence; 

hence, white people, as distinguished from Indians. 
Gil, Leon: la-on' heel. 

Gil y Taboada, Luis: loo'is heel e tah-bo-ah'da. 
Gill, Bartolome : bar-to-lo-ma' he-lee'. 
Gomez, Francisco: frahn-cees'co go'mes. 
Gonzalez: gon-sah'les. 
Gregorio: gra-go're-o. 

Guatamote: wah-tah-mo'ta; a species of groundsel. 
Guchapa: goo-chah'pa. 

Guerra y Noriega, Jose de la: ho-sa' da la gar'ra e nor-e-a'ga. 
Guillermo: weel-yar'mo. (Span, gheel-yar-mo.) 

Hacienda: ah-ce-an'da; landed estate. 

Hasta luego: ahs'ta loo-a'go; lit. until soon, meaning good-bye 

for a short time. 
Hijo mio: ee'ho mee'o; my son. 
Hoya de la Sierra de Santa Lucia: o'ya da la se-er'ra da san'ta 

loo-cee'a; hoUow of the Santa Lucia Mountains. 

Ibanez, Florencio: flo-ran'ce-o e-bahn'yes. 

Ibarra, Francisco Gonzales de: frahn-cees'co gon-sah'les da e- 

bahr'ra. 
Ingeniero: en-ha-ne-a'ro; engineer. 

Jaime, Antonio: an-to'nyo hi'ma. 

Jaume: how'ma. 

Jayme, Luis: loo'is hi'ma. 

Jesus: ha-soos'. 

Jesus de los Temblores: ha-soos' da los tem-blor'es. 

Jolon: ho-lon'. 

Jorge: hor'ha. 

Josafat: ho-sa-fat'. 

Jose: ho-sa'. 

Josef: ho-saf. 

411 



^tonouncin^ <5Co0^at^ 



Juan: hwahn. 

Juana: hwahn'a. 

Juego de gallo: hwa'go da gah'yo; lit. game of the cock. 

Julio: hoo'le-o. 

Ladrillo: lah-dree'yo; square, flat brick. 

Laguna de los Dolores: lah-goo'na da los do-l6r'es; lake of the sor- 
rows. 
Lasuen, Francisco Fermin: frahn-cees'co far-meen' lah-soo-an'. 
Lavandera: lah-vahn-da'ra; washerwoman. 
Leyva, Andres Munoz: ahn-dras' moon'yos la-eeVa. 
Loma: lo'ma; hillock. 

Lomas de la Purificacion: lo'mas da la poor-e-fe-cah-ce-on'. 
Lompoc: lom-poc'. 
Lopez, Julian: hoo-le-ahn' lo'pes. 

Madre mia: mah'dra mee'a; my mother. 

Magdalena: mag-dah-la'na. 

Magin: mah-heen'. 

Margarita: mar-gah-ree'ta. 

Maria de la Concepcion Marcela: mah-ree'a da la con-cep-ce-6n' 

mar-sa'la. 
Maria Dominica: mah-ree'a do-me'ne-ca. 
Maria Magdalena: mah-ree'a mag-dah-la'na. 
Marinero: mah-re-na'ro; sailor. 
Marta: mar'ta. 

Martin, Juan: hwahn mar-teen'. 
Martinez, Luis Antonio: loo'is an-to'nyo mar-teen'es. 
Mayordomo: mah-yor-do'mo; overseer, house-steward. 
Merienda: ma-re-an'da; luncheon, picnic. 
Miguel: me-gal'. 

Mijo: mee'ho; a running together of mi hijo, my son. 
Milpitas: mil-pee'tas; lit. small cultivated fields. 
Mi mama: me ma-mah'. 
Ministros fundadores: me-nees'tros foon-da-dor'es; ministers at 

the founding of a Mission. 
Mira, que vista tan hermosa: me'ra ka vees'ta tahn ar-mo'sa. 
Misa Catalana: me'sa cat-a-lah'na. 
Misa del gallo: me'sa del gah'yo; mass at cock-crow. 

412 



pronouncing (Bfo^^at^ 



Mision Vieja: me-se-on' ve-a'ha; Old Mission. 

Monjerio: mon-ha're-o. 

Monte: mon'ta; mountain; also thicket. 

Monterey: mon-ta-ra'. 

Mudo: moo'do; dumb. 

Murguia, Josef: ho-saf moor-ghe'a. 

Muy querida: moo'e ka-ree'-da; much beloved. 

Nacimiento, Rio del: re'o del nah-ce-me-an'to; river of the birth. 

Natividad de Nuestra Senora: nah-te-ve-dahd' da noo-as'tra san- 
yo'ra; Nativity of Our Lady. 

Navidad, la: la nah-ve-dahd' ; the Nativity; also written Natividad. 

Neofito: na-5'fe-to; neophyte. 

Nina mia: neen'ya mee'a; my child (fern.). 

Nino Salvador, el: el neen'yo sal-vah-dor' ; the Child Saviour. 

Nipaguay: ne-pah'gwi. 

Noche Buena, la: la no'cha bwa'na; the Good Night, i.e., Christ- 
mas Eve. 

Nuestra Senora del Refugio: noo-as'tra san-yo'ra del ra-foo'he-o; 
Our Lady of the Refuge. 

Nuestra Senora Dolorosisima de la Soledad: noo-as'tra san-yo'ra 
do-lor-o-see'se-ma da la s6-la-dahd'; Our Most Sorrowful Lady 
of the Solitude. 

Ojitos: o-hee'tos; dimin. of ojos (o'hos), eyes. 

OUva, Vicente Pascual de: ve-cen'ta pahs-coo-ahl' da o-lee'va. 

Oraya: o-ra'ya; an Americanized spelling of Orella, the original 

form. 
Osos, los: los o'sos; the bears. 

Pablo: pah'blo. 

Padre: pah'dra. 

Padre Celestial: pah'dra ce-les-te-ahl'. 

Paisano: pi-sah'no; native of the country; /ew., paisana. 

Pala: pah'la. 

Palomar: pah-lo-mahr'. 

Palou, Francisco: frahn-cees'co pah-loo'. 

Parron, Fernando: fe-nahn'do pahrr-6n'. 

Pasquala: pahs-kwah'la. 

413 



(ptonouneinig (SCo^^at^ 



Pastorela: pahs-to-ra'la; drama with shepherds as characters, 
specifically, representing the Nativity. 

Patio: pah'te-o; courtyard. 

Pauma: pah-oo'ma. 

Payeras, Mariano: mah-re-ah'no pah-ya'ras. 

Pedro: pa'dro. 

Peso: pa'so; dollar. 

Peyri, Antonio: an-to'nyo pa're. 

Pieras, Miguel: me-gal' pe-a'ras. 

Piloto: pe-lo'to. 

Pio: pe'o. 

Pobrecita: po-bra-cee'ta; poor little one {fern.). 

Portola, Caspar de: gas-par' da por-to-lah'. 

Pozas: po'sas; wells. 

Pozole : po-so'la ; gruel containing meat, beans, or something similar. 

Pozolera: po-so-la'ra; place where pozole was cooked. 

Pueblo: poo-a'blo; village, small town; also signifies population. 

Puente: poo-an'ta; bridge. 

Purisima Concepcion de la Santisima Virgen Maria, madre de 
Dios y Nuestra Senora: poo-ree'se-ma con-cep-ce-on'da la sahn- 
tee'se-ma veer'han mah-ree'a mah'dra da de-os' e noo-as'tra 
san-yo'ra; most pure conception of the Most Holy Virgin Mary, 
Mother of God, and Our Lady. 

Q. B. S. M., (que besa su mano): ka ba'sa soo mah'no; who kisses 
your hand. A polite conventional form in closing a letter. 

Que hay: ka i; a colloquialism equivalent to our "What's doing?" 

Quien sabe: ke-an' sah'ba; who knows? 

Quijas, Jose Lorenzo de la Concepcion: ho-sa' lo-ran'so da la con- 
cep-ce-on' kee'has. 

Quintana: keen-tah'na. 

Quitasol: kee-tah-sol' ; sunshade. 

Ramada: rah-mah'da; shelter of ramas (rah'mas), branches; 

properly enramada. 
Rancheria: ran-cha-ree'a; Indian village. 
Real: ra-ahl'; camp; also a coin, one eighth of a peso or dollar. 
Real, Jose Maria: ho-sa' mah-ree'a ra-ahl'. 
Reata: ra-ah'ta; lasso. 

414 



^tonouncing ^to&^AX'^ 



Reja: ra'hah; window-grating. 

Reynaldo: ra-nahl'do. 

Riendas: re-an'das; reins. 

Rio Hondo: re'o on'do; lit. deep river, not necessarily referring to 

depth of the water but possibly to the stream's running below 

the level of the surrounding country. 
Rios, Petronelo: pa-tro-na'lo re'os. 

Ripoll, Antonio: an-to'nyo re-p6l' ye (the e practically mute). 
Rivera y Moncada, Fernando : f er-nahn'do re-va'ra e mon-cah'da. 
Rodriguez, Antonio Catarino: an-to'nyo cah-ta-re'no rod-ree'- 

ghes. 
Rojas, Leandro: la-ahn'dro ro'has. 
Rubi, Mariano: mah-re-ah'no roo-bee'. 
Rubio, Jose Maria de Jesus Gonzalez: ho-sa' mah-ree'a da ha- 

soos' gon-sah'les. 
Ruega por mi: roo-a'ga por me; pray for me. 

San Antonio de Padua de los Robles: san an-to'nyo da pah'doo-a 

da los ro'blas; St. Anthony of Padua of the Oaks. St. Anthony 

of Padua was a Franciscan monk and preacher of the 13th 

century. 
San Apolinario: san a-pol-e-nah're-o. 
San Bias: san blahs. 
San Buenaventura: san bwa'na-ven-too'ra; a learned Italian 

Franciscan of the 13th century. 
San Carlos de Monterey: san car'los da mont-a-ra'; St. Charles of 

Monterey. St. Charles was an Italian archbishop and reformer. 

Carlo Borromeo, of the i6th century. 
San Diego de Alcala: san dc'-a'go da ahl-ca-lah'; St. James of 

Alcala; a Spanish Franciscan of the 15th century, not the patron 

Saint James of Spain. 
San Fernando, Rey de Espafia: san f er-nahn'do ra des-pahn'ya; 

St. Ferdinand, King of Spain; Ferdinand III, first king of the 

united Leon and Castile. 
San Francisco de Asis: san frahn-cees'co da ah-sees'; St. Francis 

of Assisi; founder of the Order of Friars Minor. 
San Francisco Solano: san frahn-cees'co so-lah'no; a Franciscan 

missionary among the South American Indians, particularly 

the Peruvians, among whom he died, in 16 10. 

415 



^vonouncin^ (BCo^^atr^ 



San Gabriel Arcangel: san gah-bre-el' arc-ahng'hel; St. Gabriel 

Archangel. (American pronunciation, san ga'bri-el.) 
San Joaquin: san hwah-keen'. 
San Jose, el Gloriosisimo Patriarca Senor: el glo-re-o-see'se-mo 

pah-tre-arc'a san-yor' san ho-sa'; the most glorious patriarch 

lord St. Joseph; the husband of the Virgin Mary. 
San Jose, Valle de: vah'ya da san ho-sa'; valley of San Jose. 
San Juan Bautista: san hwahn bow-tees' ta {how as in bower); 

St. John Baptist. 
San Juan Capistrano: san hwahn cap-is- trah'no; St. John of 

Capistran; an Italian Franciscan of the 15th century, famous as 

the leader of an army of crusaders against the Turkish besiegers 

of Belgrade. 
San Juanenos: san hwahn-a'nyos; Indians of San Juan. 
San Ladislao: san lah-dis-low' {low as in allow). 
San Lucas: san loo'cas; St. Luke. 
San Luis Obispo de Tolosa; san loo'is o-bes'po da to-lo'sa; St. 

Louis, Bishop of Toulouse; a young French Franciscan of the 

13th century, who became a bishop at twenty-three. He was a 

grand-nephew of St. Louis, the King. 
San Luis Rey de Francia: san loo'is ra da frahn'ce-a; St. Louis 

King of France; Louis IX, a crusading French monarch of 

the 13 th century. 
San Mateo: san mah-ta'o; St. Matthew. 
San Miguel Arcangel: san me-gal' arc-ahng'hel; St. Michael 

Archangel. 
San Rafael Arcangel: san rah-fah-el' arc-ahng'hel; St. Raphael 

Archangel. (American pronunciation, san raf-el'.) 
San Tomas: san to-mahs'; St. Thomas. 
Sanchez, Jose Bernardo: ho-sa' bar-nard'o sahn'ches. 
Sancho, Juan Bautista: hwahn bow- tees' ta sahn'cho {bow as in 

bower). 
Sangre pura: sahng'gra poor; pure blood. 
Santa Barbara, Virgen y Martir: sant'a bar'bar-a veer'hen e 

mart'eer; St. Barbara, Virgin and Martyr; a virgin martyr of 

the 3d century. 
Santa Clara de Asis: sant'a clahr'a da ah-sees'; St. Clare of Assisi; 

the "spiritual sister" of St. Francis, and founder of the Order 

of Franciscan nuns called Poor Clares. 

416 



^vonouncin^ (BCo^^at:^ 



Santa Cruz: sant'a croos; holy cross. (American pronunciation, 

santa crooz.) 
Santa Ines, Virgen y Martir: sant'a e-nes' veer'hen e mart'eer; 

a child martyr of the 3d century. She is the St. Agnes, the 

eve of whose day (January 21) gives title to Keats's poem. On 

her anniversary eve a maid may have sight of her lover in a 

vision. 
Santa Lucia: sant'a loo-cee'a. 

Santa Maria, Vicente de: ve-cen'ta da sant'a mah-ree'a. 
Santa Pragedis de los Rosales: sant'a prah-ha'des da los ro-sahl'es; 

St. Praxedis of the rose-bushes. 
Santa Ysabel: sant'a ees-a-bel'. 
Santiago : san-te-ah'go. 

Sarria, Vicente Francisco de: ve-cen'ta frahn-cees'co da sar-ree'a. 
Satanas: sah-tah-nahs'; Satan. 
Sefian, Jose Francisco de Paula: ho-sa' frahn-cees'co da pow'la 

san-yahn'. 
Sepulveda: sa-pool'va-da. 

Serape: sa-rah'pa; Mexican blanket worn as cloak. 
Serra, Junipero: hoo-nee'pa-ro serr'a. 
Simi: se-mee'. 

Sit jar, Buenaventura: bwa'na-ven-too'ra seet-har'. 
Soberanes, Mariano: mah-re-ah'no so-bar-ah'nes. 
Sobrenombre: so'bra-nom'bra; nickname. 
Sola : so-lah'. 
Sol dados de cuera: sol-dah'dos da kwa'ra; soldiers in leather 

jackets, arrow-proof. 
Soledad: so-la-dahd'; solitude. 
Soils, Juan: hwahn so-lees'. 
Suner, Francisco: frahn-cees'co soon-yar'. 

Tapis, Esteban: es-ta'bahn tah'pees. * 

Temblor: tem-blor'; earthquake. 
Teofilo: ta-o'fe-lo. 
Tienda: te-an'da; shop, store. 

Tobaco: to-bah'co; lit. tobacco, but signifying also cigar or cig- 
arette; also spelled tobaco. 
Tomas; to-mahs'. 

Tularenos: too-lar-a'nyos; Indians of the Tulare region. 

417 



Tulares: too-lah'res; pi. of ttdar (too-la^hr'), a place where tules 

(bulrushes) grow. 
Tumba: toom'ba; cataMque, 
Tunas: too'nas; prickly pears. 

Urbano: oor-bah'no. 

Uria, Francisco: frahn-cees'co oo-ree'a. 

Urselino: oor-sa-le'no. 

Valenzuela, Consuelo: con-soo-a'lo vah-lan-swa'la. 

VaUejo, Mariano Guadalupe: mah-re-ah'no wah-da-loo'pa vah- 

ya'ho. (American pronunciation, val a'-ho.) 
Verdaderamente, Don Dinero es gran criminoso: var-dahd-ar-ah- 

man'ta don de-na'ro es grahn cre-me-no'so. 
Viader, Jose : ho-sa' ve-ah-dar'. 
Vicente: ve-cen'ta. 

Ybafie^: e-bahn'yes. 

Ybarra: e-bahr'ra. 

Ybarronda: e-bahr-ron'da. 

Yerba Buena: yar'ba bwa'na; the Mexican village out of which 
the city of San Francisco grew. The words mean both the garden 
mint and a wild mint-like herb formerly common on the San 
Francisco hills. 

Ygnacia, Dona: do'nya ig-nah'ce-a. 

Yorba: yor'ba. 

Ysabel: ees-a-bel'. 

Zacatecano: sah-cah-ta-cah'no; of Zacatecas, Mexico. 
Zalvidea, Jose Maria: ho-sa' mah-ree'a sahl-ve-da'a. 
Zanja de Cota: sahng'ha da co'ta; Cota's irrigation ditch. 
Zape: sah'pa; interjection of horror. 



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